


Home alone in Gotham city

by Roselyn



Series: Home alone in Gotham city [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: Arkham - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Abuse, Arkham, Blow Jobs, Crush, Dominating, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fear, Fear Play, Gotham, Hand Jobs, Jealousy, Kidnapping, Kissing, Light Sadism, Love, Making Friends, Making Out, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Resolved Sexual Tension, Riddles, Rough Sex, Sadism, Semi-Public Sex, Sex, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Vaginal Sex, Villains, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:35:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 28
Words: 67,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22284223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselyn/pseuds/Roselyn
Summary: You are home alone in your very first apartment.Perhaps you shouldn't have, Gotham is full of dangerous and horny people. . .The series features your hot an steamy adventures withGotham's most wanted and dangerous. . .Will they love you? Or try to kill you?
Relationships: Edward Nigma/OC, Jervis Tetch/OC, Jervis Tetch/Reader, Joker/OC, Joker/Reader, Joker/You, Jonathan Crane/OC, Jonathan Crane/Reader, Jonathan Crane/You, Mad Hatter/You, Oswald Cobblepot/OC, Oswald Cobblepot/You, Penguin/You, Riddler/OC, Riddler/Reader, Riddler/you, Scarecrow/OC, Scarecrow/Reader, mad hatter/oc
Series: Home alone in Gotham city [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1604041
Comments: 539
Kudos: 805





	1. Kidnapped

**Author's Note:**

> Got the Arkham games for Christmas and been in love ever since.  
> Feel free to picture the characters as you please, though.

The TV was on extraordinarily loud, even though you weren’t watching it. It was merely on for some white noise while you were making supper. It made you feel safer, since you were home alone. You often were: It was your first own apartment.

The news were filled with the recent crimes of Gotham, as always. It sounded like the GCPD was going to have a busy night. The mention of Arkham Asylum prickled your interest and so you left the kitchen counter, making your way to the couch with a cucumber sandwich in hand. The most dangerous patients had escaped again, you found out, and all citizens of Gotham were advised to stay indoors for the night.

For you, it would be easy. It was Monday, so there was no work tonight. You did only three nights a week, cleaning one of Gotham’s museums. It didn’t earn you much, just enough to stay in food. Uncle Alfred was the one paying your rent. He had offered you housing at the Wayne manor, and ‘Master’ Bruce had offered the same, but you had declined, not overly fond of the mentioned playboy macho master.

The news switched onto a weather report, making you slightly disappointed. A glimpse of the mentioned criminal masterminds would have brought some excitement to your eve. In a way, some dark, twisted part of you had always been intrigued by the Gotham’s most dangerous. Excited by them, even. . .

Sighing, you finished the sandwich, ready to go to bed. The weather report was little use and interest for you; it rained almost every day.

You had just turned off the TV, when the door of the two-room apartment flew open. For a moment and against all logic, you thought it was Uncle Alfred, coming to take you to the manor because of the news, but the figure was much too slender.

On an instinct, you rushed towards the bread knife you had left lying on the counter; that was, till you noticed a gun was pointed at you.

“Oh, so unwelcoming! I wouldn’t do that if I were you. . .” the raspy, yet slightly high pitched voice spoke.

“What- what are you doing here- what do you want?” You asked your voice cracking slightly.

The Joker had broken into your apartment, if you had even remembered to lock the door. Your racing mind refused to remember it at the moment. Had the chain been on before he kicked the door open?

The clown prince of crime stilled, tilting his head slightly. He might have smiled, thought you couldn’t tell for sure; his face remained mostly in shadows. “Well what do ya know! I know you from the paper, you’re one of Bruce Wayne’s bangs, aren’t you?”

The paper? It must have been the picture of Bruce talking to you, while you had come to say hello to Uncle Alfred at downtown. Paparazzi had snapped a pick then, it soon being published under headline: “Billionaire’s mysterious girlfriend.”

You didn’t have time to reply, when the Joker continued, “This is crazy! I mean, of all the apartments in Gotham, I ended up in yours.” He licked his lips, taking a step forward. “Stitch me up, toots.”

“W-what?” you stuttered.

“Do I have to repeat myself?” the clown asked quirking a brow, making a small move with his gun.

Only now, you noticed his other hand was pressed to a wound at the left side of his abdomen and his purple leather glove was dyed red with blood.

“I-I’m not sure if I know how to—”

“ ’Course you do. Just dig the bulled out and stitch up the wound; don’t worry, they shot from a far and almost missed; you won’t have to dig deep.”

“But shouldn’t you go to a hospital or something, if you’ve been shot?” you asked, slightly lowering your hands. You hadn’t even noticed raising them at some point. The sight of blood was making you slightly dizzy. And worried.

The Joker let out a short laughter. “Do I look like a guy who can just walk into a hospital? What are you, toots; a model? They’ll lock me up to the asylum again and I just escaped. No. No, I think you’ll be the one doing the honors.”

“O-okay.”

The Joker tightened the grip from his gun impatiently as you shifted. “Nuh-uh; and where do you think you’re goin’?”

“Whoa! Easy, easy,” you said, deciding it was best to do by the clown’s will and act all nice. “I’m just going to get a needle and something suitable for the stitching. It’s all in the kitchen’s upper closet, see? I’m just going to get it, alright?”

“Never can be too careful,” the Joker stated, still pointing his gun at you. He took a slightly shaking step forward and you noticed he had started to sweat off some of his face-paint. “Plenty of crazies out there, you can never know which ones will try to kill you ya,” he added with a maniacal grin.

If I made him to wait long enough, would he faint? You wondered, taking your time. The Joker noticed this of course, urging you to move faster.

“Come’ ere, closer, closer.” And at the moment you were close enough, the Joker fell to sit on the couch, pulling you roughly down with him. “That’s a good girl; now do your trick,” he urged, aiming the gun at your temple.

With slightly shaking hands you chose a suitable needle from your mother’s old sewing box, deciding it was probably the best to use the same string for stitching, your father had used for making flies. As ironic as it might have been, it also was in the same box. Now, all you had to worry about was getting the bullet out. . .

The Joker was again getting frustrated by your slowness, pressing the gun tighter against your head. “Are you annoying me on purpose, ‘cuz if you are . . .” he formed the silent word _bang_ with his lips.

“Alright, alright. I- I need to open your shirt to- deal with the wound.”

“No one’s been stoppin’ you, Hun.” He gave you a tired grin. “But seriously, are you a model, an actress? What sort of women does the billionaire stick it in, I’ve always wondered. . ."

“I’m a cleaning lady,” you replied evenly, praying in your mind nothing would trigger off the clown to shoot your brains out.

The Joker sniggered at your words. “A cleaning lady!? You one of those fancy French ones?”

“No, I clean up a museum, part time,” you said, uncertain whether you should have felt offended, or flattered by his snarky comments and assumptions. Nevertheless, you undid the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. You probably could have done it a lot faster, if your hands wouldn’t have shook so badly.

“This will hurt,” you warned, glancing at the clown with a pair of small dull-tipped scissors in your hand. They were the only tool you had, suitable for digging out the bullet. Luckily, just as the clown had said, it wasn’t deep and you were able too it’s metallic shine, despite the blood.

The Joker raised his brows, giving you the ‘no shit’ expression. But then again this kind of act must have already been familiar to him, judging from the multiple scars at his upper body. And as you removed the bullet, he barely made a grunt. You gasped rather loudly however, feeling sick by the amount of blood. But as the gun barrel against your forehead worked as an effective motivator, you cleaned up the wound, stitching it with the best of your ability.

“I-I’m done now. Will you- will you let me go?”

“Will I let you go?” the clown snickered. “Yes. No. Maybe? Oh this is fun, even I don’t know what it’ll be! Just look at you! You’re trembling. But you sure did make good job with the wound, toots,” he added, almost kindly, then pressing the gun barrel tighter against your forehead. “Now lean in, and kiss it aaaal better.”

Shaking, your eyes moist, you leaned in to press your lips on the freshly stitched wound. The clown was going to kill you, you were sure of it. Why? Oh why it had to be you? He could have broken in any of the apartments in Gotham. . . and he had ended up in yours. . .

The Joker shifted with the feel of contact, letting out a small pleased noise, the kind which you would not have preferred to hear. Yet, you couldn’t deny the groan had been slightly arousing. That there wasn’t anything charismatic or appealing about the crazed jester. . .

He grabbed your face as you made and attempt to pull away, leaving red stain on your cheek from his bloody glove.

“You’re not done yet, toots; I want you to kiss _all_ of them, better.”

Flinching, you leaned in, kissing his body with trembling lips. His skin was pale, smooth and warm. And for a moment, you forgot you had your lips on a mentally insane criminal.

Joker’s breathing got slightly faster, along with your own. Against your will, you started to get wet, slightly squirming at your seat at his feet.

And the clown was getting comfortable, you noticed, the bulge appearing in his pants.

“Oh you’re a good one. Should’ve become a nurse instead of a cleaning lady,” he murmured with a chuckle.

You made an approving humming sound, ready to unbuckle his belt. If blowing the clown was going to prevent your brains form being shot out, you were game.

The Joker stopped you, however, nearly hysteric with his giggles.

“Easy toots, I’ve got a girlfriend! Besides you’ve got a date tonight. It’s not with me, though,” he added, sniggering. And knocked you out with the butt of his pistol.


	2. Hostage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You wake up just in time for your 'date'. . .

You wake up with a sore head. Your lip hurts, along with the rest of your body. It’s dark.

“Idiotic brutes. . . to treat a young woman so roughly. . . bleeding all over my floor. . .”

It had been the mutter that had woken you, you realize, soon feeling something wet and cold against your lip. A wet rag, gently dapping away the blood.

“W-here am I?” you ask silently, blinking your eyes. It takes a while to realize you’re blindfolded.

“Well what do you know, the crazy clown did not manage to break your skull after all,” an impatient voice replies. There’s a mild echo. It sounded like you were somewhere underground. And the voice, it sounded so familiar. . .

“To answer your question,” the voice continued, sounding somewhat pleased, “you’re in the best hidden hideout in Gotham city.”

“Why? Why am I here?” you inquire, swallowing. Your mouth feels dry.

“That, my dear, is a very good question,” the voice replies, amused and laced with bride. “You’re here to witness the most brilliant scheme ever created to ensure the Dark Knight’s final failure!”

That voice! The Riddler. . . Your ‘date’ was with the Riddler?

“I am a hostage?” you nearly cried out, your hands and legs tugging against restrains as you tried to move.

“My, my. A sharp one, aren’t you?” The Riddler mocked, sighing. “A pity the clown and his thugs treated you so roughly. It gives a bad image —my victims have always been in perfect condition while they’ve been on broadcast.”

You swallowed again, sucking your swollen lip. Victims? You didn’t like the sound of that.

“What makes you think Batman will come to save _me_?”

“Because he has to, my dear. It’s his nature. The caped crusader cannot let a single soul to perish. Now, be ready to beg after my speech, he’ll get here faster if he’s rightly motivated.”

“I’ll beg,” you promised swiftly.

“Smart girl,” The Riddler replied and you were able to hear him take a seat in a little distance, the chair creaking silently under his weight.

There were a couple of clicks, a tap on the microphone and Riddler began his broadcast. “Hello, Dark Knight! As you may have noticed I have left you some riddles to solve. Find them, solve them and you get coordinates to the hostage. Oh, and there’s a time limit of six hours. Fail to solve the riddles and the hostage suffers! Say hello to the Dark Knight, my dear.”

He kept a pause and you knew it was your time to talk. “Help me Batman!” you cried out as miserably as you could, struggling in your chair. “Oh god please come find me!”

“Hear that, Dark Knight? Come find her in six hours, because when sun comes up, her head will fall off,” the Riddler told with a chuckle, turning off the broadcast.

“Well done my dear, well done. That ought to encourage him to find my riddles.”

“My head will fall off?!” you replied, shocked.

“That is the plan. . . What?! He’s already. . .” the Riddler trailed off, clicking the broadcast back on. “Well done, Dark Knight, well done. You have solved the first of my riddles. The easy one, which even a six year old could solve. But there’s more; go find them in order to save the poor girl from a horrible and painful death!”

“Could. . . could I have a sip of water?” you asked after a while, certain he was no longer broadcasting. “I am not feeling well.”

There was silence, a rather long one.

“I certainly hope that clown didn’t hit you hard enough to give you a concussion,” the Riddler spoke with the sound of his approaching steps. “I don’t need you to start vomiting all over.”

You flinched as he grabbed your chin, gently as he did, guiding a straw between your lips.

“Drink.”

You did, sucking the water slowly. Your lip hurt with the gesture, making you grunt silently.

“Are you done?”

You nodded, licking your lips. Something about his voice made you breathe a little faster. How snappy he had sounded, with just a hint of agitation in his tone. But then again, you always had had a thing for the Riddler.

You remembered a time when he had terrorized the city, broadcasting his riddles between the news. You had watched them all, listening to his voice, mesmerized about the ambitious scope of his plan. And you had pleasured yourself while watching, fiercely fingering yourself to cum just when he had said _“Riddle me this!”_ The thought of that orgasm still made you blush. It had been the most intense of your life.

You swallowed at the memory, your lips parting, feeling the urge to squeeze your thighs together. You were getting wet, despite the life threatening circumstances.

“Could you loosen the rope a little? My right foot’s getting numb,” you said after a while, idly wondering if he could see your arousal, spread legged as you sat.

“Try anything and your head falls off now.”

“I won’t, I won’t,” you breathed, without thinking. “We cannot ruin the game.”

Once again there was a long silence, till you could feel him squatting down beside you. His hands began working on the knot, briefly touching your ankle. The rope had rubbed it sore, but his fingers were warm, making you gasp silently as you leaned forward to get more comfortable.

The zipper of your pink velour hoodie opened with the gesture, you realized, embarrassed, revealing the purple lace bra underneath.

“Stop squirming! What are you. . .”

You could feel his breath on your bosom as he raised his head, his words trailing off.

You were nearly panting. This was almost like from one of your sexual fantasies. Kidnapped by the Riddler, alone and at his mercy. . .

“Hold still! Stop your squirming! Stop. . .” He rose, taking slight support from your thigh, making you hold back a gasp.

“Sit still,” he breathed, pulling your zipper up slowly. His knuckles brushed your skin with the gesture, nearly making you moan.

You could hear his breathing, quickened, coming close to you. Making you more aroused.

“I told you to sit still and stop squirming,” his low voice whispered in your ear. It sounded like a threat. “Stop squirming and. . .” The words ‘ _distracting me’_ hung heavy in the air, you sensed, being able to smell some sort of candy from his breath, so close he was to you.

“I am sorry, Mr. Riddler,” you breathed, fighting your own thoughts of what it would be like, to kiss him. Would he be gentle? Or rough, forcing his tongue in your mouth? “I won’t do it again,” you added, leaning your head back.

You were startled by the sudden sound, followed by quickly distancing steps and a slam of a door. The room had fallen silent. And remained that way for a good long while. So long, that you started to get worried.

Then, there was a sound of some sort of silent alarm, coming from the spot the Riddler had broadcasted from. The sound of the door followed soon after, along with the sound of his approaching steps.

“So, Dark Knight, you’ve solved another one. Good work! You’ve got twenty-eight more riddles to go to get the girl’s location. Try to make it quick, the clock’s ticking,” he spoke, sounding slightly exhausted and out of breath. Then, he ended the broadcast, letting the room fall back into silence.

You could smell the faint scent of sweat in the air, along with something else. Cum?

It seemed like the Gotham’s most dangerous had become slightly touch starved, during their long stay in Arkham. . .


	3. Mysteriously attractive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is this? Batman is a cheat!?

The room was silent as a grave. Yet, you could feel the Riddler’s eyes on you, studying your body, scanning every curve, burning your skin. He had not uttered a word since his latest broadcast. . .

There was that beep again, and he turned the mic on. “Twenty-one to go, Dark Knight.” And that was all he said.

In a way, his sullen silence was worse than his bragging broadcasts had been, with detailed threats on your life. It made you wonder what he was thinking about. Was he angry? Ashamed? Curious? Or had his thoughts taken a more intimate trail, wondering what it would be like —to have his hands on your body? Touching and fondling every curve. . .

The very thought made you want to squirm, but you knew better. The Riddler could get violent, if provoked enough.

There was another beep and this time, the Riddler seemed to switch the mic on more eagerly. “Twenty more left, Dark Knight. You have succeeded decently and it is time for a reward: the identity of our mystery hostage!”

There was the sound of steps and suddenly you could feel his finger, slipping beneath the blindfold.

“And here we are! Our mystery hostage is none other, but Bruce Wayne’s latest conquest! I wonder what the billionaire will say when you fail to rescue her! Now, take a careful look at the collar around her neck. Fail to solve my riddles and when the sun comes up, a wonderfully sharp string will emerge from it to cut her head clean off! Do hurry Dark Knight, do hurry!”

You spoke nothing, just blinked in the spotlight that switched off probably as soon as the broadcast ended, leaving the room almost dark.

 _I sure hope ‘clean off’ is a synonym for ‘fast’_ , you thought, just now you realizing the Riddler’s hand rested upon your shoulder. Most of his fingers rested on the fabric of your hoodie, but his thumb brushed your skin, moving slowly up and down at the back of your neck, making you shiver.

You could barely resist the urge to lean against his hand. His touch, so light and brief, yet so arousing it made you want to rock your hips in despaired cry for sex.

Embarrassed of your own thoughts, you swallowed, turning your gaze down. 

The Riddler made a low _hmm_ -sound, starting his way towards his desk. Just now, you got a good look at him, as much as it was possible in the dim light of the numerous screens he had piled on top of each other.

He sat down backwards on his chair, facing you, resting his arms at the back of the chair. He looked different somehow, you wondered, just now realizing he wasn’t wearing his usual business suit. He had dress in greenish pants instead, with white collar shirt he had pulled out of his pants, with a sleeveless sweater on top. In this light it was difficult to tell whether it was purple or gray.

“So you’re Bruce Wayne’s latest conquest,” he spoke after a while, the words rolling off his tongue most mockingly. “How odd. You don’t seem his usual type, even though the clown insisted you’re some sort of French maid/model. What does the billionaire see in you?”

You could see the riddle-man’s point. Here you were, slightly beaten up in a matching pink velour outfit, barefoot and miserable. Not your most attractive self, to be sure.

“I am not his latest anything,” you said before you were able to control young tongue. “I don’t even like him. I went to see my uncle and paparazzi snapped a pic of me.”

“So you’re not good enough for the playboy?”

“What? Yes —no! I don’t know! He invited me to live in his mansion, but I declined. He’s never laid a hand on me, I never let him,” you added, for some reason wanting to make it very clear. And perhaps flatter yourself slightly in the process. You were strong willed, while most women would have allowed Bruce to do lots of thing, just because he was rich. “I didn’t find him attractive.”

The riddled tilted his head, taking off the glasses that had fallen down at his nose. He bit their end softly while looking at you with slightly narrowed eyes. His hair was messy, in a way, with a couple of loose strands falling over his forehead. “Oh really?”

“Really,” you told dead-serious.

“And why is that?”

“I-I suppose he couldn’t stimulate me intellectually,” you stuttered before realizing what had left your mouth.

Even in the dark of the room, the Riddler’s eyes were too intensive, too captivating and far too observant. You could have sworn there was a small smile curling his lips, as he spoke out his next words.

“You turned down a playboy billionaire, because he couldn’t stimulate you intellectually. What a _mystery_ you are, my dear. . .”

The computed behind him beeped, but the Riddler did not turn to look.

“Could I use the bathroom?” you then asked after a while, as the silence began to feel too pressing and your staring contest had lasted for several minutes. It was safe enough to ask, you reckoned. Riddler was the sanest of Gotham’s criminals, you supposed.

“Why? Uncomfortable?” His voice sounded almost gloating. Too soft compared to his normal tone.

“I need to pee,” you confessed.

“And what makes you think I have a bathroom here?”

_Because you were there about 15 minutes ago, jerking off?_

“It was a guess. Surely you need one in a space you spent several hours in,” you said, trying to sound kind and innocent.

“And what makes you think I’ll let you use it? It would mean letting you lose.”

“Because you don’t want me to pee all over your floors?” you stated, slightly annoyed. But you didn’t allow him to hear it from your voice.

The Riddler hummed, sounding slightly amused. The computed beeped again as he got up, making his way to you.

“If you try to escape, the collar decapitates you once you leave the safe zone,” he told, undoing the knots at your ankles first. “Do you understand me?” he then asked, sliding his hands up your thighs as he got up to look you in the eye.

You nodded. Your mouth felt dry, you pussy wet. “Yes. Yes, I understand. W-what is the safe zone, where it ends?”

“Smart girl,” the Riddler murmured, his nose nearly touching yours, till he pulled away to undo your wrists. “It ends outside these rooms. Off you go. The yellow door over there.”

You went, feeling the concrete floor cold under your bare feet.

You did your business quickly, gazing yourself from the cracked mirror as you washed your hands. You lip was swollen and your hair was in horrible disarray, but otherwise you seemed to be fine, despite your state of frustrated arousal. The Riddler had had his release, but you hadn’t gotten yours. And something told you that you weren’t allowed to spend enough time in the bathroom to fix the situation.

Still feeling hot and bothered, you made your way back to the main room. The Riddler had retaken his spot at the computer screens, observing with great interest.

“The bat has nine more to go,” he told absentmindedly. “And three hours. . .”

You went by his side, looking at the screens. Each posed a death trap. A complex one.

“He cannot solve those in three hours!” You cried out. “No one can solve those in three hours! They’re too complicated! He would have to be some sort of super genius, besides; they’re on different sides of Gotham! He would have to be unnaturally fast, too!”

“They can be solved in 15,3 minutes each, if you know what you’re doing,” the Riddler muttered. He seemed to have forgotten you were his hostage, or he simply had gone past caring. The bat had solved an impressive number of his riddles during your time in the bathroom. Very impressive, considering the riddles were quite far apart. Several blocks, actually.

“So he should have. . . 42 minutes to get to me, after your last riddle?”

“42,7 my dear, minus the time it takes for him to move between the riddles.”

“But that means he has under five minutes to move between the . . . is that. . . Robin?” you stuttered in your building panic, pointing at the upper corner screen.

The Riddler jumped up so swiftly he nearly knocked over the chair. “He’s cheating! The Bat’s cheating!” From his stone, you couldn’t tell for sure whether he was happy or angry.

He switched the mic on, yelling in it: “You cheated! The game’s over!”

 _“Don’t do anything you’ll regret, Nigma. I have your location,”_ a brooding voice spoke back.

“That’s because you _cheated_!” the Riddler spoke back, his voice echoing because of the bad reception. Then, he turned off the mic, turning to you with his eyes blazing.

“One last riddles, my dear —and you’ll be the one asking it. If I cannot answer correctly, you go free.”

You panic, your mind completely empty. It felt almost as if your brains had turned into liquid and poured out of your ear. It might have been the panic, or the fact the Riddler was so close to you, hands rough at your shoulders, his breath warm on your face. . .

“What. . . what. . . Why is raven like a writing desk?” you stuttered, it being the only thing that got to your mind. In your childhood, you had become painfully familiar with the book.

The Riddler looked at you, his eyes growing wide, his grip tightening from your shoulder. “Figures, with a name like yours,” he breathed, reaching to unlock the collar at your neck. Then, he pushed you away. “Get out of here!” he spat.

“I have no shoes and it’s almost October!” you spoke back, quickly biting your tongue.

The Riddler looked back at you along his nose. “Does that mean you don’t want to leave, my dear?” He asked the question softly. Too softly. Venomously softly.

“I’ll go. Thank you, for letting me,” you breathed quietly, making your way towards which looked like an exit. Behind it lay more stairs and a ladder, giving you the impression his base had been somewhere in old Gotham, in the ruined and collapsed buildings.

You got out of the tunnels soon enough, breathing in fresh air. The sun had started to rise, making the horizon lighter from the rest of the sky. It made you wonder if Batman or Robin were on his way to rescue you —Or had they assumed you dead and given up the chase? You did not recall seeing the dynamic duo in daylight. Ever.

Cursing your lack of shoes, you began your way out of the alley, trying to get your bearings. The morning was cold and so you stopped to warm your bare feet on top of a fallen newspaper. It looked rather fresh, actually, featuring a huge picture of your face at page four with large headline: _“Amber Alice Pennyworth is Bruce Wayne’s mystery lover”_

You sneered at the text. No wonder Riddler had made the reference between your name and the riddle. He must have read the news online while you were in the bathroom.

You were just about to move on, hoping to find an open joint to make a call to your uncle to come and pick you up, when a voice called out for you, making you freeze still. 

“Alice? Is that you, my dear Alice?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm the embodiment of evil to make your middle name 'Alice'.  
> Just guess who's in the next chapter. . .


	4. Alice my ass!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unwillingly you attend a tea party.   
> And do something that makes the Hatter think you're definitely his Alice. . .

“Listen to the ticking, Alice. Listen to the ticking. . .”

_Ticking. . . ticking. . . ticking. . ._

_\--_

You blinked for a couple of times. Your eyelids felt heavy, your head slightly sore.

There was a sweet smell hanging in the small worn room. The furniture looked old, almost like antique, but not very well kept. This must have been yet another abandoned building in Gotham.

You raised a hand to feel your head, groaning quietly, noticing you were wearing shoes. Shoes like you had had when you were nine, attending to your grandmother’s party. These shoes were adult size, though. And slightly too small for you.

Your pink velour outfit was gone as well, replaced by a short blue dress and an apron.

_Dear god. . ._

“Alice! You’re awake!” a cheerful voice cried out and not much sooner was the Mad Hatter by your side.

You could only stare at the smaller man, uncertain what to do or say. Whether to play along or tell you were not his Alice. Jervis Tetch may not have been much of a physical threat, to someone of Batman’s size, but he sure as hell was one of the Gotham’s craziest. And unpredictable. Yet, you had to try.

“My name is Amber,” you spoke quietly, calmingly, attempting a pleasant smile. “Not Alice.”

It was difficult to ignore the fact the Hatter had already undressed you, while you were out. Whether you had walked to his hideout under hypnosis or if he had managed to carry you . . . you weren’t certain if you even wanted to know.

“No, no. I know it’s you Alice. They tried to hide you from me, under a false name they tried, but I found you, Alice. . . my sweet Alice,” the Hatter murmured with a loving smile, taking a seat on the couch you were lying on. He placed his hand on your knee. His fingernails looked especially dirty against your white thigh-highs.

“Listen, mister. It’s Amber,” you tried again, gently grabbing the hand that had started to fondle your knee. “Even my hair’s too dark. It’s closer to dark-gold than blonde —it’s even closer to brown. . . Some of my friends and family call me Liz, though,” you added to soften the blow. It was also true, not that you liked the nickname very much. It had become more of a pun for those, who had made the connection between your name and the children’s book.

The Hatter started to look confused.

“I-I don’t understand. You have to be her, you have to be my Alice. You look like Alice and your name is Alice. You even smell like Alice. . _Alice. . . Alice. . .Alice. . ._ ” he seemed to trail off for a moment, whispering out your middle name.

“Listen carefully. It’s Amber. A-M-B-E-R. Amber, not Alice,” you repeated determinately.

“You’re not. . . my Alice?” the tiny man asked slowly, observing your with wide eyes. “You’re an _imposter_ , like the rest of them?” he the then questioned, with a touch of anger in his voice. His fingers squeezed around your hand, almost crushingly.

His words silenced you. His grip made your wince in pain. You knew what had happened to the ‘imposters.’ It had been on the news, one had cut her own throat under hypnosis, the others had disappeared. . . Two Jervis had killed with his own hands. 

“Imposter? Dear Hatter, no! No. It is me. I am Alice,” you stuttered, eyes moist with fear. You attempted a smile, definitely deciding to play along. “But please be quiet, I am afraid the Red Queen will find me, if I abandon my false name. . .”

The Hatter’s eyes grew brighter with your words, but his expression remained suspicious.

“I knew you would come back to me, Alice. I knew. You’re finally home, if you are my Alice. . .” he added slowly, observing you under his brow, head tilted slightly to the side. 

“Oh Hatter! I am so glad!” you breathed, throwing your arms around the tiny man. He smelled slightly sweaty and musky and his coat could obviously use a little washing and patching.

“I am so glad to be home,” you murmured against his shoulder, realizing it was the double or nothing-game for you.

You would play along and wait for a moment to escape, or so you had planned, until the Hatter kissed you. It started out gentle, his lips pressing briefly on yours, almost like tickling, rather than kissing. But then he got greedy.

His hands grabbed your wrists as his body pressed on yours, lips hungry on your mouth. And for a brief second, you kissed back, too shocked even to fight him off.

“Oh, you’re definitely my Alice,” the Hatter giggled and you were able to feel his erection against your thigh. “My sweet, kind _Alice_. . .” He murmured, hands adventurous on your body. Rubbing your sides, cupping a breast through the thin fabric of the dress. He found a hardened nipple, circling it with his thumb while he kissed you again, lips attacking your mouth with such worshipping fervor that for a moment you forgot who he was.

And you moaned into the kiss.

A powerful shame struck you just then. Not only because you had moaned, but because you liked the things the Hatter did to you. You had thought his kisses to be unpleasant, considering his looks, but they were far from it. They were needy, perhaps even slightly sloppy, but every single touch of his lips worshipped your very existence and tasted like strawberries and whipped cream.

He was on top of you now, practically rubbing himself against you. His lips were wet on your neck, teasing you with gentle nibbles, making their way lower.

He pulled your cleavage down, exposing two ample breasts.

He had removed your bra before dressing you; you realized hazily, gasping as the Hatter took a nipple in his mouth while cupping your other breast, weighting it in his hand.

His other hand trailed down your thigh, slipping under the hem of your dress.

He stroked you through the lace panties with his knuckles, starting to rub your clit with the tip of this thumb.

“Oh you’re already wet Alice. . . so wet and ready,” the Hatter gasped, pulling your hem up. He leaned in to kiss your knee, making his way up your inner thigh, nibbling the tender skin.

“H-Hatter. . . Listen. Stop. I want you to. . . stop. Mr. Tetch . . . listen to me. JERVIS!” you screamed, pulling your hem back down. You were red faced, panting slightly.

The hatter seemed to have snapped out from his delusions for a moment, looking at you confused, almost guilty.

“I’d like some tea,” You breathed, placing your feet on the floor, straightening your hem.

The tiny man frowned. “But Alice. . . I have been so long without you—”

“—I would really like some tea,” you interrupted. “The one that’s your specialty. The good one. Surely you could make me a cup, for your Alice. . .” you added nodding. “You’re a true gentleman, Hatter, aren’t you? And I have just requested tea.”

The Hatter shivered, making a whimper-like sound, before collecting himself.

“Sure. . . tea. Certainly. Tea for Alice,” he muttered pulling away, heading to the other room.

You jumped up as soon as he was gone, now painfully aware what the Hatter had done with the previous Alices before their tragic and untimely deaths.

You looked around, standing in the middle of the room just as the Hatter came back.

“The kettle’s on, Alice my sweet, is there anything special you’d like to. . . eat? Alice is all well with you?” the Hatter asked, dropping out of his rhyme. He sounded genuinely concerned.

“Yes, Hatter dear. I was only looking for the bathroom,” you lied swiftly. Perhaps with luck, he would have one with a window big enough to use as your escape route.

“Just over there,” the Hatter hummed, pointing at a nearby door. 

The bathroom was small and windowless, much to your disappointment. It did not even keep in any weapons, just toilet paper, toothpaste, worn toothbrush and. . . tampons. The Hatter was well prepared for Alice, it seemed.

The hypnotist had already laid out a tea set, once you re-entered the room, tapping the couch next to him.

You glanced around, hesitating. If there was front door nearby, you might just make it if you ran fast and perhaps knocked over some furniture to slow the Hatter down.

“You seem lost in your mind, Alice,” the Hatter pointed out. His eyes turned foggy for a moment. “The others got lost too, until they weren’t Alice anymore,” he added, digging something from his pocked. His watch, no doubt.

You were swiftly by his side, placing your hand on his knee. “The others were not Alice, Hatter dear. I am,” you told, like explaining it to a child. Now what sort of tea did you make?”

It took a while till he answered your gaze, taking his hand out of his pocket. No watch —and it seemed like you got to keep your mind unscrambled for a moment longer. 

“Vanilla with raspberries,” the Hatter replied, hesitating. “It goes well with the cupcakes and biscuits. It’s the one you asked for. My special tea . . . my specialty. . .”

“Sounds delightful,” you smiled. “Let us have some.”

The Hatter poured you both a cup, shifting a tray of different bakings towards you.

Out of politeness (and for the sake of staying in character) you took one, biting into the tiny cupcake with blue icing. It tasted surprisingly delicious.

You made and approving humming sound, making the Hatter grin his childish grin. He placed his unfinished tea on the table, shifting closer to you. He reached to brush a smudge of icing away from your lip with his thumb.

“Are you not going to get a second cup? I’d like a second cup,” you told quickly, deciding to prolong the inevitable. Perhaps long enough to make the Hatter take a piss.

The hypnotist shook his head. His hand snuck its way around your waist, pulling you closer, against his body.

“No Alice. . . There shall be a moment for tea, but now I’d like you to invest your time in _me_ ,” Jervis murmured before claiming your mouth most passionately. His tongue flicked on your lips, demanding access.

You were ready to struggle, when a familiar voice caught your attention.

“Jervis, are you in here? I need to crash for a couple of nights, the bat trashed my base and I can’t reach Crane!”

“Nigma!” you nearly screamed into the Hatter’s mouth, as the familiar man enter Jervis’ worn apartment. He had dressed into a green winter jacked, carrying a large tube sports back on his shoulder, along with a laptop case.

The Riddler stared at you two for a while, till a mocking smirk appeared on his lips.

“Well, well, isn’t it the Mystery Minx. Fancy seeing you here.”

“You have met my Alice, Eddie?” Jervis asked curiously.

The Riddler eyed you up and down a moment longer, looking most amused as he dropped his bag on the floor. He shook his head with a chuckle, moving closer to the shorter man. He snapped his fingers for a couple of times before his face.

“It’s not Alice, Jervis. You went down the rabbit hole again.”

“No. No. . . This is she, this is _Alice_ ,” the Hatter insisted, grabbing you tightly as if fearing you’d suddenly disappear in thin air. Which you would have, if could have.

“No. This is Amber, Bruce Wayne’s latest arm candy. Would Alice let someone like Wayne to bone her?”

You opened your mouth to protest, but closed it swiftly. The Riddler was trying to help and you could only make things worse by arguing.

“But your name’s Alice. . . you said you’re _my_ Alice. . .” the Hatter whimpered, looking at you with moist eyes.

“My middle name is Alice,” you told carefully, glancing at the Riddler for support, “And I said I am your Alice, that is true. But I am not _the_ Alice. I can be your _friend_ -Alice. Would you like that, Hatter? To have me as your friend? I’d let you call me Liz. . .”

“A friend. . . I’d like a friend,” the Hatter murmured. He seemed to be shutting inside his shell.

“That’s very good, Jervis. You made a whole new friend today, but Liz needs to go home now,” the Riddler told, offering you his hand.

You grabbed it swiftly, rising from the couch. The Hatter didn’t make a move to stop you. He sat perfectly still, gaze down, hands resting on his knees. He appeared nearly catatonic.

“Will he be all right?” you asked as the Riddler led you to the front door, cleverly hidden behind the corner at the end of a long corridor.

“Jervis will be fine,” he told, sounding almost bored. “It’s not the first time he’s done that. Crane usually takes care of it, if his delusions get serious. It was not very smart to say you’re ‘his’ Alice, though.”

“And what was I supposed to say? That I’m an imposter and let him slit my throat?” you spat back, eyeing the man in green under your brow.

A small grin spread on the Riddler’s lips as he dug a few dollars from his pocked.

“Here. Turn left and make your way at the end of the alley, then go right and you’ll come across a bus stop. And don’t worry, the neighborhood his fairly safe. We’re only a couple of blocks from down town.”

“Thanks,” you muttered, taking the offered money. After all what choice you had? Your wallet was at home and you didn’t tend to keep money in your underwear in case you were kidnapped from your home by a homicidal clown.

You were ready to head to the door, when Riddler stopped you, locking you between the wall and his body.

“Jervis could have hurt you badly, if he had wanted to. You owe me one for this,” he whispered, brushing your cheek with his thumb. Then he pulled way.

“Off you go, Mystery Minx,” he added, pushing you towards the door, letting his fingers trail across the small of your back while guiding you out.

You went, cursing the criminals in your mind.

The bus stop was right where the mystery-man had told you it was and you settled to wait. The morning was chilly and the too small shoes pinched at your toes. You were tired. And worried.

Anticipating and worried.

As you stood there, shivering in the morning’s cold, you came to realize that your life would probably never be the same again.

The Joker knew your home address, the Hatter thought you were Alice and the Riddler. . .

From the way the Riddler had smirked, you had a hunch he would come to collect his ‘payment’ sooner or later. . .


	5. Embarrassment and consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was that really the last of Jervis you saw in his base?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to skip right to Scarecrow, but then realized the Batman knows where you were last night.   
> To a certain point, at least. . .  
> The plot thickens. . .

You kicked at your door in frustration, cursing loudly. Of course the clown had locked it, while kidnapping you, leaving your phone and keys inside.

You should have been grateful, you supposed, making your way down the stairs. An unlocked door was an open invitation and in a city like Gotham, one could find her apartment empty. At least the Joker had shown some courtesy —or had just slammed the door shut hard enough. At this point, you were beyond caring.

The streets were busy with people in their fancy business suits, going to work. They eyed you up and down along their noses, most likely thinking you as a woman, coming home from her ‘night shift.’ At best, they must have assumed you as some sort of fetish dancer from My Alibi, thanks to the dress Jervis had provided you with.

You went to a close by diner, asking to make a phone call. The owned glanced at your outfit with badly covered amusement, but gave permission. And so you made a call to Uncle Alfred, as if the morning hadn’t already been humiliating enough. But what could you do? He was the only one with a spare key.

He came to pick you up twenty minutes later, with Bruce Wayne on his back seat, much for your displeasure. He looked tired and there was a hit of a bruise at his jaw. Perhaps he had been in a fight, or just taken a drunken fall down the stairs. Or perhaps an insulted model had hit him with a champagne bottle. . .

“Rough night, huh?” the billionaire asked, watching you to take a seat as far from his as you could.

“One could say so,” you replied, avoiding. Your lip was still swollen and it felt like there was a lump at the back of your head, much thanks to Joker. Your hair was a mess and you shivered from the cold. Yet, you were grateful to finally take off your too small shoes, to let some blood reach your numb toes. 

“So, care to explain the story behind the outfit, a costume party perhaps?” Bruce asked. His tone was light, politely interested.

The asshole could at least have given you his jacket.

You gave him a forced smile and a nod. “Yep. Alice in Wonderland. Had a blast of a time.”

There was no way you would tell him the truth, especially with Uncle Alfred so close to hear it. If they found out about the Joker, the Riddler and Hatter and all that had happened, they would lock you into the Wayne Manor never to see the sunlight again. 

Bruce frowned at your words. “A little unwise to go to a party, considering the maniacs just broke out of Arkham.”

“And has that ever stopped you from going to a party?” you shot back, snarkier than you had intended.

“I am with Master Bruce on this,” Alfred spoke from the front seat. “You should be more careful, Liz. And take better care of yourself and your things.”

From his tone, you guessed there would a lecture later.

Alfred parked at the street next to your apartment, getting out of the car. And for your surprise, so did Bruce.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen your apartment, so I thought I’d take a look now,” he smiled, hands in his pockets.

You were not too happy about Bruce inviting himself into your home, but then again, perhaps his presence would save you from the lecture.

You were holding your breath as Alfred unlocked the door, wondering if the Joker had left any surprises inside, but your fears turned out to be uncalled for. Your apartment was much as it had been the night before. With the sewing equipment, the bloody bullet and some bloody paper still on the floor.

“Sorry about the mess. I was planning to do a little cleaning last night, but then I got a nosebleed,” you smiled brightly, snatching the bullet into one of the papers. It was a perfect crime; a lie so good you might just get away with it.

“And still went to a party,” Uncle Alfred said. He sounded grudging, worried.

“And still went to a party,” you nodded. “So, I am very thankful to you both, but now I should really hit the shower and do some cleaning.”

“Why don’t you serve us some tea,” Bruce suggested. It seemed like wanted to stay in to snoop around some more.

Tea was a thing you had had enough of lately, but declining would have sounded suspicious, not to mention impolite, and so you agreed.

“The kettle’s on. I’ll just grab a quick shower,” you told, heading to the bathroom, taking the bloody papers and the hidden bullet with you. There, you dumped them into a trash can. No one would pick up a bloody paper from a woman’s bathroom. No one sane and unsuspecting, at least, so you were rather satisfied about how you had hid the evidence.

You would have preferred a longer shower, but your guests were waiting and so you slipped a bathrobe on, hurrying to change into some fresh clothes.

As you re-entered the kitchen, Alfred had already poured the tea and had taken out some cookies from your stash.

“You fridge seems rather empty, Liz. Do you have enough money to buy food?”

_What an embarrassing question in front of a billionaire. . ._

Alfred’s question had probably been calculated, though. He seemed to wish you’d move into the manor.

“Yes, Uncle Alfred. I have everything I need. I just haven’t been into the store,” you replied, reluctantly taking your seat next to Bruce.

“Listen, Amber,” the billionaire spoke, spinning the mug in his hands, “I spoke with Alfred and we’d both like you to move into the manor, at least till the criminals have been caught.”

“There are plenty of single women and men living in Gotham and have never been bothered by the criminals,” you replied, gingerly sipping your tea. Jervis’ tea had been better, you realized, doing your best not to flush, remembering his fingers at your clit. His mouth at your inner thigh, nibbling the tender skin. . .

The night had been a rough one, as had the morning. And you were still sexually frustrated. You’d have to take care of that, as soon as Bruce and Alfred were gone.

“I wish you would listen to Master Bruce, Liz. Gotham isn’t safe and it was foolish of you to leave to a party.”

“I went to the party before I knew the criminals had escaped,” you shrugged. “I won’t leave the house after dark again, though, now that I know they’re out there,” you added.

Alfred looked at you gravely over his mug. “You do night shift, Liz. Are you going to quit your job?”

He had a point. . .

“How do I get to work from the manor? If I live here the museum is in walking distance.”

“Alfred will drive you, of course,” Bruce said right away.

It annoyed you, how he always bossed your uncle around, never asking whether he wanted to do something or not. Who even employed butlers, anyway. . . At least Uncle Alfred got paid well. . .

“That I will, sir,” Alfred nodded.

“Still, I won’t come,” you said, emptying your mug.

“You will come, Liz. At least till the criminals are back in Arkham, or I won’t pay your rent,” said Alfred.

And that was that. You were officially out of options.

You packed a week’s worth of things in twenty minutes, along with your phone and keys. Who knew how long it would take for Batman to lock up the criminals again. Weeks? Months?

The bases had been well hidden, at least the two you had unwillingly visited. You should probably start seeking for a full time job, you reckoned. If you managed to get one; In a city like Gotham, the competition was tough. . .

You were given a room of your own at the manor, slightly too close to Bruce’s bedroom, for your liking. It was very grand; you had to admit, with a touch of Victorian spirit, given by the furnishing.

“And now I live in the Dracula’s castle,” you muttered to yourself, dropping your suitcase on the floor. You had carried it up yourself, telling you wouldn’t let your uncle serve you.

There was a knock on the door, along with Uncle Alfred’s voice: “Lunch will be served within half an hour.”

So much for your privacy, then.

“Thank you!” you called through the door, hopping on the bed. You could use the time and check out open work places from your phone. Perhaps with luck, you’d be out of the manor sooner than anticipated.

***

“How do you think she got away?” Bruce asked Alfred, frowning. He was sitting in the library, a glass of brandy in hand.

“It is difficult to say, sir. Perhaps she escaped, or Mr. Nigma let her go after noticing the Batman cheated. Nevertheless, I would be pleased if you managed to convince her to stay here in the manor.”

Bruce continued as if he had not heard the butler, “Nigma doesn’t just let people go. I am more surprised he didn’t kill her. And she lied. We both know she wasn’t in a party, Alfred, yet she seems unshaken by the happenings of the last night. Why exactly did she lie?”

“Perhaps Mr. Nigma threatened her into silence.”

“And her outfit, the whole ‘Alice look’. It could be possible Riddler and Tetch are working together and she’s under hypnosis.”

“How do we get proof of that, Sir?”

Bruce stirred his drink, letting it slosh from one side of the glass to the other.

“We don’t. We just have to wait and see, keep an eye on her.”

“All the time, sir? She will not be happy about that.”

“We both want her safe, Alfred. Jervis already dressed her as Alice, so he will not kill her. Not as long as he thinks she’s Alice. If Amber is under hypnosis, it is possible she will try to return to Jervis, once something activates the trigger.”

“And how can we be sure Mr. Tetch is involved?”

“Nigma does not dress up his victims,” Bruce replied darkly.

***

Jervis Tetch was on your mind also, as you dug out your vibrator later that night, finally alone and at peace, ready to seek some relief for the tension you had been forced to feel throughout the day.

Many would have though the hypnotists an unlikely man to fantasize about, but you had always been wild and creative with your fantasies. Besides, there was small part of you, which was sad the Hatter hadn’t had the chance to finish.

And so, you placed the orange bunny vibrator between your legs, letting it tickle your clit as you closed your eyes, deciding you could continue where the Hatter left you before Nigma arrived as your gallant savior in green. And the Hatter had left you very, very close to an orgasm.

You could see him clearly in your mind, pushing you on your back to the couch, crawling to spread your legs. You could see his top hat behind your blue puffy skirt, as he leaned in to kiss your inner thigh. Of course, he would keep the hat on. . .

_“Be my Alice. . .”_

You jerked, opening your eyes. The whisper had sounded so real, almost as if it had been spoken right in your ear.

Startled, you looked around the room, but no. . . It had only been a product of your wild imagination.

Relaxing, you closed your eyes again, getting back to your play.

The Hatter kissed you though the panties, running his tongue over the moist slit, covered by purple lace, making your back arch. His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping them spread as you tried to press them together in your pleasure. . .

_“Where are you, sweet Alice?”_

You were getting close now, ready to slip the vibrator’s shaft in just as you’d orgasm. That was how you’d always done it. It was a sure way to get a double deal. Once you had had the first orgasm, the rest were easy.

The Hatter had got you good and well prepared. Your pussy was wet, nearly dripping. You were panting, your back arched as you waited spread-legged the Hatter to unbuckle his belt and slide his cock in. Slowly, deeply, while telling you were definitely his Alice.

_“Come to me, Alice. . .”_

It was a gentle command, whispered directly in to your ear.

Instead of reaching the peak of your pleasure, you blacked out.


	6. Hatter, I'm Home!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You return to Jervis' base under heavy hypnosis,  
> causing trouble to the villains.  
> The Bat is tracking you, making the Gotham's most wanted  
> eager to get rid of you. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started the series I thought I'd be writing  
> purely smut, but it appears this is going to have a  
> rather complicated plot in the end.  
> Naturally, with smut.

“She appears to be gone, sir.”

“Gone? Are you certain?”

“Yes, sir,” Alfred replied. “I have looked everywhere and even used the batcomputer to scan the house.”

“Jervis. . . it has to be. . .”

“That’s not all, sir. She took one of your cars. The gray Porsche, I believe.”

“She’ll be easy to track then. . .”

“Please bring her home safe, sir. And might I suggest you approach her as yourself, after Batman has left her somewhere safe, to the hospital maybe? I know you have chemicals to knock her out, but I’d rather you didn’t, sir. It would also be wise to have her medically examined, before bringing her back to the manor. Bringing her here as Bruce Wayne instead of Batman would also help you to keep Batman’s identity as a secret. ”

“Good suggestion, Alfred. I will do just that.”

***

 _“Hatter, I am home. . .”_ The voice was obviously yours, only it was coming very far away. . .

“She’s been repeating that since she got here, what the hell did you do to her Jervis? Have completely lost your mind?”

“I just wanted my Alice. . .” a sad voice replied.

“You turned her into a drooling zombie and don’t know how to undo it?!” the snappy voice continued. There was a sound of steps, pacing back and forth in the room. Your eyelids felt heavy, your body relaxed. There was a pleasant scent in the room: A mix of something sweet, old stuff and musk; laced with breath mints and mild but sharp scent of aftershave.

“I-I’ve never done it before. I never told the others to come back to me,” Jervis continued, nervous. “But they weren’t Alice. Not like her. She’s the one, my _true_ Alice. Her name is Alice. She looks like Alice. She smells like Alice. . . I didn’t want to lose my Alice. . .”

“Just, snap out of it already —And stop sniffing her hair, for god’s sake. The GCPD will be here any moment, cars like that have trackers and it most certainly isn’t her own. She cannot afford a Porsche, the Joker said she lives in a dump. —Or worse, the Bat gets here before the cops. He already trashed computer equipment worth thousands of dollars in my base. Just guess what he’ll do —Well finally!”

Riddler’s words were followed by the soft sound of an opening and closing door.

“What took you so long? Did you get any of my calls?”

“I got all of your calls, Edward. All eleven of them, along with five text messages,” a soft, even voice replied. “However, one does not –cannot– interrupt as delicate work as mine to answer a mere phone call.”

Riddler ignored the third party’s words, going straight into business, “Jervis hypnotized her to return to him, but something went wrong. Her head’s completely scrambled and he doesn’t know how to undo it—”

_“Hatter, I am home. . .”_

“—And that’s the only thing she’s saying! Besides that, we can’t even get rid of her. She follows us around, keeping in hand-holding distance to Jervis.”

“You sound agitated, Edward. What exactly are you _afraid_ of?”

“Now’s not the time for one of your _sessions_ , Crane,” the Riddler snapped. “Fix her.”

“Who is the girl, exactly?” the soft voice asked. There was a sound of fingers snapping and so you opened your eyes. Your gaze was blurry, as if seeing everything through dirty glass. You could make out the shapes of the three men around you. The closest one was tall and lanky, with dark mop of a hair and thin-framed glasses. His voice was soft, low and pleasant. . .

“We have tried that already. And you call yourself a psychologist. . .”

“If you don’t need my help, I shall return back to my work. . .”

“I don’t need anyone’s help,” the Riddler replied swiftly, “But because I appreciate your professional opinion, I. . . chose to call you.”

“But of course, Edward,” the soft voice spoke, laced with dry amusement and boredom.

Your head lolled to the side, against the soft cool hand that was laid against your cheek. The dark haired man pulled your eyelids open, checking your eyes.

“Slight shivering . . . dilated pupils. . . mildly quickened pulse and breath, tensed muscles —What trigger did you use to activate the hypnosis, Jervis?”

“The hypnosis is triggered when Alice is her most intimate, vulnerable, private self,” the hypnotist replied, sounding almost proud.

“You hypnotized her to come here, when she’s sexually aroused?” Nigma questioned, crossing his arms. “That’s sick, Jervis —what were you going to do? Rape her?”

“Alice would never say no to me,” the Hatter insisted. He sounded mildly insulted.

“Liz. Her name is Liz you top-hatted twat! Not Alice, though no doubt you hypnotized her to come here dressed as one.” He snorted. “Some secondhand Alice you got; blue jeans, white button up blouse and a head band. At least your got the colors right. . .”

“Are you sure, Jervis, that you cannot undo your hypnosis —Or do you not just want to?” asked Crane. He was still studying you, holding your face between his long fingered hands.

There was a long silence, which was broken by the Riddler. “I _knew_ it! I knew it you tiny mind-fucking asshole! Undo it or I’ll take that ridiculous hat and run it through a shredder!”

“Please Eddie, not my Hat! I can’t I can’t! I have no clue what went wrong, what would be due! I meant no malice: I just wanted my Alice!”

“Be calm, Edward,” the dark haired psychologist spoke. “Jervis is having one of his episodes, we must understand and treat him accordingly but since he’s not able to cooperate. . . Well, I am afraid we are rather low in options. . .”

“And what are the options, the clock’s ticking, Crane. The Bat or the GCPD will be here any moment now,” the Riddler spoke impatiently.

“Why don’t you just leave, Edward? What is forcing you to stay here, I wonder, when Jervis is the one who caused all this trouble?”

“And go where? My base has been trashed and the Bat’s hunting me. Now on with your diagnosis.”

“I suspect that the reason she’s unable to ’wake up’ is caused by an added element Jervis did not calculate in his plan. Alcohol, most likely. It affected her central nervous system, making the hypnosis too deep. It should wear off on its own, during a couple of hours, but since we’re short on time. . . Relief to her. . . condition might break the hypnosis,” Crane spoke softly, letting his cool fingers slide down to your neck.

His thumb pressed into the hollow of your throat. There was a small hint of threat in his touch, a slight suggestion he might strangle you.

And his touch made you moan. Your breath quickened as you squeezed your keens together.

_“Oh. . . Hatter, I am home. . .”_

“When she’s in that state?” the Riddler snapped. “We’d end up in Arkham, labeled as sex offenders and I, Edward Nigma, do not need to drug and abuse women to have them squirm at my feet in pleasure. I can have any woman I want, whenever I want.”

“But of course. And you are absolutely right. There’s no point to commit an offending act based on pure hypothesis. There is another method I would use,” Crane spoke softly, almost fondly. “A small dose of my fear toxin might snap her out of it. . .”

“What are you trying to do, Crane? Give her a feargasm?”

“Do you have a better plan?” the psychologist asked. There a small hint of a rasp in his voice. A touch of a smile on his full lips.

There was silence again.

“Do it.” Nigma then told.

“Your toxin will not harm my Alice, will it?” the Hatter asked. His blurry form stood further back, twisting its fingers in agitation.

“I will use a very controlled dose. The adrenaline in her blood should wash away the affects of the hypnosis naturally, without causing any damage to her brains.” Crane told, kneeling down by your side.

He opened his brief case, taking out an injection needle with orange substance within.

“Twenty milliliters should do it,” he clarified, taking the needle to your neck.

There was a small sting, which made you whine silently, not entirely in discomfort.

“There. It is done. Now we wait.”

“Good. We should take her back to the car and tell her to drive away. . .”

“Hush! What’s that? Is it the sirens I hear? The Red Queen’s coming for our heads, I fear!”

“They’re still distant. We’ll take her to a rooftop and tie her there for Batman to find. Like that she cannot follow us back and we might just be able to save the base,” the Riddler spoke, picking you up and lifting you on his shoulder. “Jervis, duct tape from my bag.”

They took you to a nearby rooftop, using the duct tape to tie you up to an old chair. It was cold and raining. Your sight was getting slightly better, your mind clearer. Your heart was beating faster beneath your slowly soaking white blouse.

“She’ll be good here. We should leave,” the Riddler spoke, turning . The Hatter followed him, most reluctantly glancing at you several times over his shoulder.

“Don’t worry Alice, I will find you again, I promise. . .”

The Crane stayed behind from the others, observing you a while longer. His sharp blue eyes observed your face, stopping on your lips for a moment, before traveling back to your eyes.

“You’re starting to feel the effects of my toxin now, how it slowly replaces your arousal. You will get frightened, but it is all right. It is alright to be _afraid_ ,” he whispered, marveling. And dropped a tiny pouch next to the chair. Then, he followed the others.

***

“The GCPD is scanning the area and I have located the car, but there’s still no sight of her, Alfred.”

“You will find her, Master Bruce. I have faith in you.” There was a pause in the incoming call. “You have to.”

“I will find her, Alfred. I promise. Tetch will pay for this. . . I think I have a visual on her.”

***

You groaned, turning your head from one side to the other. You sight was clear again, as much as it could in the dark night of Gotham.

The rain had soaked through your shirt, turning it almost transparent, revealing the black push-up bra underneath. Your head hurt, but at least your body had stopped its involuntary twitching, in your attempt to follow the Hatter. You were cold.

 _Bruce sure will be mad once he realizes I stole his car_ , you thought, trying to get more comfortable.

There was a shadow in the sky. Your potential savior, who could arrange you somewhere warm and dry and so you called out: “Batman! Over here!”

The air was filled suddenly with a cloud of dust, making you cough. The scent was sweet and bitter at the same time. The powder got into your eyes, making them leak, blurring your vision again.

Once you opened your eyes, the world was wrong, crooked, alive. Shifting, moving, living and breathing. And the creature. . . the horrible creature in the night, approaching you. Gliding closer its eyes gleaming red.

You screamed, starting to struggle.

It was getting closer. It was a monster. It was. . . a bat.

The terror was overpowering, the fear, swallowing you alive.

As the monster was close enough to touch you, you finally lost consciousness.

***

Jonathan Crane was making his way along the narrow back alley as his phone beeped in his pocket. It was a text message from Edward.

_The GCPD overran Jervis’ place._

_I barely managed to save my laptop._

_Can I crash in yours?_

_I won’t invite Jervis._

He typed back a quick response.

_I am sorry, Edward. No._

_I am about to start a personal project which demands_

_the base to be reserved for my personal use only._

_Try the Lounge._

And with that, the master of fear put the phone back into his pocked, disappearing into the night with a rare anticipating smile on his lips. 

***

“She’s fine, Alfred. I am with her at the hospital. They’re going to keep her over night because of the panic attacks, but otherwise she seems unharmed.”

“I am glad to hear it, sir. I hope poor Liz isn’t too traumatized by the handling Mr. Tetch gave her. Did you find him, by any chance?”

“I am sorry, Alfred. The base was empty as I got there,” Bruce spoke to the phone. He had changed and was in his playboy role again. “Amber was exposed to Scarecrow’s toxin, there was a trap next to her on the rooftop, but I found traces of it from her blood as well. It appears Tetch wasn’t alone in that base. I also found DNA traces of Nigma around the apartment, but he was gone as well.”

“Oh dear. It sounds like we have quite a problem in our hands, but what has made the criminals take such an interest on poor Liz? Will she be safe, for the time being?”

“Exposure to the fear toxin has broken the hypnosis, but besides that, I cannot say. I will spend the night here at the hospital and bring her back tomorrow morning. I think Amber would appreciate a sturdy breakfast as we get home.”

“Very good, sir. I shall be waiting.”

Bruce ended the call, sighing. He headed back to your hospital room, taking a seat in the armchair by the bed.

You were awake and aware of his presence, but pretended to be asleep. Your back was at him, your eyes were closed. If you opened them, you feared you’d see the monstrous bat again. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. I wonder if Eddie does have a strong moral code, or are his reasons purely selfish?  
> What an earth is the Master of Fear planning? Could the term 'feargasm' have possibly triggered something?
> 
> The plot gets even thicker from her, my friends. . .
> 
> Crane wasn't easy to write. I'm eagerly waiting to try out his other personality.


	7. Fear needs sleep to settle in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feel the fear, the doctor is here. . .

“I’m fine Bruce, seriously,” you told with poorly covered frustration, watching the flashing by scenery. Bruce was driving fast.

It had been a mild shock to wake up, with him still in the hospital room, snoring softly in the armchair. You had thought he would have gone into a hotel or something. Hell, waking up with Uncle Alfred in the room would have been much more likely. At least you were related, while you were no kin to Bruce.

_Weird-ass billionaire. . ._

“Sorry to pester you, I just wanted to be sure. After all you just vanished with my car and don’t remember anything of it. The GCPD suspected you had been under hypnosis and I heard you were exposed to a toxin of some sort, when Batman saved you. The doctor told me you had panic attacks and anxiety. And that cold doesn’t sound too good, either. I think you should skip work tonight,” Bruce added, as you sneezed again.

Oh yes. Batman. . . You held back a shudder with the thought of him. You had never been much of a fan, but now your dislike was even worse. _Creepy old bat. . ._

“I cannot skip any work, Bruce. I have bills to pay. Besides, I have a job interview tonight, before going to the museum.”

“Where did you apply?”

“It’s one of the most popular night clubs. They’re looking to hire a waitress. I could do that two nights a week, besides the cleaning up,” you told, avoiding. Bruce didn’t need to stick his nose into your private life.

You hoped to get hired, though. Iceberg Lounge was a popular place. They pay was certainly better than at the museum, and Cobblepot was said to look after his own. —Besides, the tips were said to be big.

“What club, Amber?”

You turned to look at Bruce by your side. His jaw was tense, his gaze pure steel. “Just a club,” you told stiffly, hoping he’d pick up the hint.

“I was just wondering whether I own it, or if somebody I know does. Some of the clubs in Gotham have a rather bad reputation. . .”

“Like which ones?”

“Iceberg Lounge, for example,” Bruce told lightly. “Cobblepot has said to be involved in criminal activity. He has been in Blackgate, twice.”

You frowned at him, shrugging. “I guess he has then.”

“You still didn’t tell me which club.”

“And I won’t,” you told softly. “It is none of your business, where I work, but a girl’s gotta eat, Bruce.”

Bruce looked like he wanted to say something more, but didn’t. He was squeezing the wheel, you noticed.

“Chill out, you’re going to drive us off the road,” you muttered, gazing out the window. You’d be at the manor soon, thankfully. The way Bruce was acting had started to make you uncomfortable, or perhaps it was some late effect of the fear toxin.

You shifted, anxiously rubbing your thighs. You wondered what all had happened, before the rooftop. If you had been in Jervis’ base again.

 _At least I don’t feel violated, so he probably did nothing to me. I wonder if Eddie was there, too,_ you thought, smiling. You still owed him that favor. It made you slightly giddy just to think about what it could be.

“Are you sure you don’t remember anything about last night, not even before you left the manor?”

“No, for the millionth time, I do not. I was in my room, _reading_ , and blacked out. I woke up in the rooftop for a brief second and blacked out again. The next thing I remember is that I woke up at the hospital, feeling panicky and hysteric. —And I’m sorry I took your car. I’m glad they found it OK,” you added tartly, crossing your arms.

“I don’t care about the car. I just. . . I care for you, Amber. I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” the billionaire spoke quietly.

You glanced at him, but spoke nothing. His words had made you slightly uncomfortable.

***

“You seem agitated, sir. Is everything all right?”

“More or less,” Bruce replied. He was at the batcomputer, flipping through the latest data of the criminals.

He had gotten a trail of the Hatter last night, but lost it few blocks from his base. Nigma and Scarecrow had both vanished as if in thin air. And there had been no sign of the Joker since a member of the GCPD had shot him. He wasn’t dead, thought. That Bruce was certain off.

“There are holes in the story,” he muttered, watching from the corner of his eye how Alfred placed a cup of coffee on the nearby table, along with biscuits. It was five o’clock. Teat time, in other words, but he preferred coffee over tea.

“Holes, sir?”

“Amber’s story. . . about the involvement of the villains. She told she had been at a party, but we both know she was held hostage by the Riddler. How did the Riddler kidnap her, for example and most importantly how did she get away? Had Tetch hypnotized her already, or did she run into him after? Her clothes were different on the video and her whereabouts were unknown to us for over three hours. —And Crane. . .” He fell silent for a moment, rubbing his jaw. “Riddler, Crane and Tetch. . .The three of them are together in this somehow, I’m almost sure of it.”

“Did Liz remember anything of last night? She’s still very sorry about taking the car, sir, though she insisted she did not remember doing it.”

“I did not dare to question her properly, Alfred. I am not supposed know anything, except that she took the car. Besides, she appears to remember only little, if anything. I listened when she talked with a doctor, telling she had woken up at the rooftop. Her memories seem to end to the bit where Crane’s trap exploded.”

“Do you think she’s still under hypnosis?”

Bruce shook his head slowly, clicking open the file about the Riddler.

“No. The adrenaline rush the fear toxin caused washed away any traces of hypnosis, even the trigger, whichever it was. She was hysteric when I finally reached her, and lost her consciousness immediately.”

“You said there were traces of the toxin in her blood, ser. Injected in her earlier.”

“Yes and it worries me,” said Bruce. “I think she’s being used, Alfred, willingly or not.”

The butler shifted his weight, cocking a brow. It was a rare gesture for him. “Pardon me, sir, but did you just say ‘ _willingly_ or not’?”

“She applied for a job on Iceberg Lounge and I have hacked her phone. The search history was filled with videos and articles of the Riddler, Scarecrow and Joker. Some bout the Hatter, but they seemed irrelevant. She has watched Riddler’s old broadcasts for several times and read nearly every article Crane had written about fear. She appears to be expressing some level of infatuation towards the criminals.”

For a long while, Alfred was silent. “Should I send her off Gotham, sir?” he then asked, with icy professionalism. “I could do it easily, by simply stopping to pay her rent.”

Bruce considered his words for a moment. “Don’t. We should have more evidence, before conducting anything. I think you should drive her to her job interview tonight, as you have promised.”

“To the Iceberg Lounge? Why would I ever do that, sir? Just the thought of having her work in that vile place—”

“—Because I cannot interrogate her as myself. And she said something to me in the car: ‘A girl’s gotta eat.’”

“She reminds you of Miss Kyle,” the butler spoke, a touch of sadness in his voice.

“I think I can help her, Alfred. Batman can interrogate her —and scare her out of her infatuation. I do not want her ending up as a second Dr. Quinzel.”

“Neither do I, sir. Though I beg that you are gentle with her; Liz is a good girl, despite her possible interests.”

“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” Bruce told.

***

You sniffed, wiping you runny nose into your sleeve, pulling the collar of your jacket up. The wind was cold, blowing off yellow leaves on the darkened street. Yet you had to smile. Your interview had gone well at the Lounge and you could come and give your new job a try on Friday night. If you did well, they’d take you in full time. But now, your job at the museum awaited. Luckily, it was not too far from the Lounge.

You took a turn to the back alley, leading to the back door of the museum. The sound of your heels echoed from the walls. The job interview had demanded you to dapper up, but you’d change into something more comfortable at the museum: The dull gray work uniform waited for you in your closet, along with more sensible shoes.

You stopped, glancing over your shoulder to the alley.

For a moment you had thought you had heard steps, maybe seen someone . . . but no. The alley was empty.

There was a sweet scent in the air, making you sneeze and cough for a couple of times. You hoped your cold wasn’t getting any worse.

And then you heard it again. Steps. And this time, as you turned to look, there was someone behind you at the alley.

It was close you did not let out a yelp at the sight of the tall slender figure. For a moment you thought it was a mugger, or even the Joker, till the hooded figure stepped into the light.

_Scarecrow._

That was four Gotham villains in a short time. With that probability; you should have played the lottery. Yet, you couldn’t deny the mild feeling of excitement and dread that filled your belly just then.

Dr. Jonathan Crane had been the one that got away, in a manner of speaking. During high school, you had looked forward to the University life —and his classes. But he had been expelled before you had reached the required age. It did not stop you from reading all his fear related articles, though. Not to mention all those nights in your dorm you had spent fantasizing about him. About the tall silent professor, who would take an interest in you. Hold you after the classes just to be with you. . .

And then he had been identified as the Scarecrow. And your secret crush had gotten worse. Your fantasies more wild. You had even gone as far as to imagine yourself as a patient in Arkham, falling victim to Dr. Crane’s experiments. Him, holding a knife against your throat, asking whether you were afraid yet, while fingering you on the director’s desk. . .

“Are you not afraid?” the tall man asked, waking you from your memories.

You were, not just as intensely as he thought or hoped you would. And despite your fantasies, you didn’t want to get gassed tonight. Scarecrow’s toxin was known to drive people into madness. —And you did not want to end up in Arkham.

You didn’t reply, but started your way towards the back door, half jogging. Once inside, you believed you’d be safe. That was, till a dark figure landed between the door and you, speaking to you with a deep brooding voice.

“Amber. . .”

You saw it was Batman, yet you screamed. He was tall, dark and terrifying —and now you were truly afraid.

Screaming, you turned on your heels, running as fast to Scarecrow as you could, throwing yourself into his arms.

“S-save me. . . help me. . . don’t—don’t let it come near me!”

The lanky man seemed slightly surprised, but took you in his arms, roughly spinning you around to face the Bat. You could not look, dared not to look, but you could feel his arm tighten around you, pressing your back against the chemical bottles he had strapped around his torso. There was something cold and sharp pressing against your throat. The needles in his hand?

“One step closer, and I’ll inject her with enough toxin to drive ten men insane,” Scarecrow rasped. His grip tightened, suffocating you. Yet you made no attempt to struggle. You were safer here. Safe from the Bat.

“What have you done to her, Crane?” the brooding voice asked, thick with anger.

Scarecrow cackled to his words. “The question is, little bat, what did _you_ do to her? I merely infected her with my fear toxin, but it was you who made her fear. Diving through the cloud of the toxin on that rooftop, scaring her unconscious. . . Fear needs sleep to settle in, little bat, and you made her faint. She might just as well fear you forever!”

“Let her go, Crane —or I’ll crush all your bones!”

“She’s mine now, Bat. And it is time you faced your _fears_!”

There was a hissing sound, accompanied by the bitter-sweet smell and Batman’s coughing. Then, you felt the needles sink into your neck, and knew no more. . .

***

You woke up with a ragged gasp, your back arching against a cold metal table. You wrists and legs tugged against the restrains. Your coat was gone, as were your boots. You were wearing only the skin tight cocktail dress, generous with cleavage, and black pantyhose.

The room was dark, despite a couple of candles on the close by table.

A dark figure loomed by them, hunched over something.

“H-hello. Where am I?” you asked carefully.

The figure turned swiftly around, slapping his hands to the table, making you jump.

“You’re about to step into your worst nightmare, girl. . .”

It was Scarecrow, still fully costumed. In the dim light, you could see his mask, made to mimic the shape of his face, hiding the gas mask underneath.

“D-Dr. Crane. . . ?”

“There’s no Dr. Crane here. . . Only _Scarecrow_!” the psychologist hissed, bringing his needled hand closer to your neck.

“Jonny-boy thinks you’re special. . . That you enjoy _fear_. . .” Scarecrow rasped, curling his fingers around your throat. But only for a moment. He began his way down, running his hand on your body. The needles scraped at your skin as he trailed a finger along your cleavage. Over your belly, all the way down to your thigh. . .

Again, you were getting wet against your will. Your legs were spread, giving Crane an easy access to trails his fingers to your inner thigh.

And his touch made you jerk. Certainly not out of discomfort or repulsion. But fear and arousal. It was mild fear, anticipating fear. Delicious fear.

“Let me go, Crane,” you breathed, your wrists tugging against the restrains. Your tongue flicked out to wet a dry lip. “Let me go and I can show you a good time. . .”

“Jonny-boy thinks his assumptions should be put to a test,” Scarecrow spoke, as if he had not heard you. His grip tightened, the needles sank into the soft flesh of your inner thigh.

Your back arched as you cried out, your pupils dilating. For a moment everything was black and then, the world was alive, twisted, moving.

You blinked, confused. You weren’t tied up in the little room anymore. You were standing at end of a long corridor. The lights were blinking. It was almost dark.

“H-hello!”

Silence.

“Shit. . .” you muttered to yourself, starting your way onwards. Next you to you on the wall was a poster. It said: WELCOME TO ARKHAM ASYLUM

 _Oh fuck, shit, shit, shit. . . This is a dream. I’m not insane_ , you told yourself, hesitantly walking forward.

There was a sound of a chuckle. You recognized the voice easily.

“Scarecrow?”

“You’re in my world now, girl. Everything will be as real as I choose it to be. . . Now, what are you _truly_ afraid of?”

“Bats, Crane! I’m afraid of bats! Thanks to you. . .” you told, muttering the last part to yourself. You started to look for an exit. This was just a hallucination, a creation of your imagination. You were inside your own mind. —Not that you were actually enjoying it at the moment.

“What else?” the voice rasped. This time, it came from much closer.

“I don’t know, Crane! I really haven’t thought of it!” you called out, trying the closest door. It was locked.

“Liar!”

The chairs on the wall sides flew across the corridor, making you jump.

The whole place was like from a horror movie.

“Okay, okay!” you yelled, before anything worse happened, feeling the first signs of panic starting build up inside you. “I fear fear! Feeling it! Having a panic attack! I’ve had those before! They don’t feel very nice. . .”

“What else?” he asked and this time. It was asked in a low raspy whisper. Right behind your back.

“At the moment, I’m afraid of you,” you said, turning around, ending up face to face with the Scarecrow. He pushed you against the wall, fingers tight at your throat.

“You lie. . .” he spoke. “This is not proper fear. . .”

You shook your head, closing your eyes. Your hand had risen to grab his, the one that rested on your throat, suffocating you.

“Are you getting aroused, by fear?” he asked. And this time, his voice was much softer, lower. Slightly amused.

Crane chuckled. His hand reached under your skirt while he kept you pinned to the wall.

His fingers brushed against your mound, stroking you through the pantyhose.

“You are fooling your brains? You fool yourself to feel arousal, instead of fear. . .?” Crane asked, starting to stroke you slowly.

You moaned with a nod as your brows knit together in pleasure. You had begun to rock yourself against his hand.

“Hmm. . . You ride your fear as you would ride your pleasure,” the psychologist murmured, leaning in, his rough spun covered lips nearly touching yours.

You gasped. Your back arched against the cold, white tiled wall. You wanted to cum. You needed to.

“I-I’m having a panic attack,” you moaned, out of breath. You were barely conscious, drifting in a mix of pleasure and fear.

“Then cum,” Crane whispered —and you could feel one of his needles to scrape at your clit.

You cried out, shocked. You were back at the table, still restrained. The room wasn’t dark anymore. It was very bright. Too bright. You were sweaty, panting and ashamed, scanning the room with mild confusion.

Dr. Crane looked at you behind his glasses. He was sitting on a couch, observing you, leaning on his knees. His chin rested upon his fingers, laced as if in prayer.

“Fascinating,” was the only thing he spoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That 'fear needs sleep to settle in' is a fact, actually.  
> An acquaintance my mine, who has dabbled in psychology told me.  
> 


	8. The session

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are at Crane's mercy.  
> The master of fear has questions. . .

You squirmed, looking at the dark haired doctor at the couch. He was observing you behind his glasses, silent and unmoving. His silence, you believed, was the worst part of the situation. 

It hung heavy in the room, not uncomfortable, but pressing: Filling you with mild dread and anticipation of things that were yet to come. It had been a long while, since the master of fear had uttered a word. . .

Your mouth was dry, your breaths short and deep. Your body was still trembling from the effects of the fear toxin. —And your orgasm.

“Will you. . . will you let me go?” you then asked, licking your dry lips as it became obvious Crane wasn’t going to talk. “I’ve met your friends. Riddler and the Hatter. Even Joker. They all let me go,” you spoke, as calmly and sweetly as you could.

“Why did you ran to me, at the alley?” the psychologist asked, his words slightly muffled by his hands. He had the talent of ignoring your words.

You gave him a soft nervous smile. “I was afraid. I thought you could protect me.”

“You weren’t afraid of me,” he stated. There was unusual tone in his soft low voice. Disappointment? Curiosity? Approval?

“No,” you spoke, shaking your head. Your ankles tugged against the restrains as you shifted, trying to get to a better angle: Trying to have a better look at him. His face was a blank mask, hidden behind his glasses. “I was afraid of Batman. I wasn’t before, but now. . . Now he frightens me.”

Crane made a low humming sound, pushing himself off the couch.

He walked to the end of the table, leaning over you, his hands resting on both sides of your head. His eyes were intense, so very blue, shining bright under that dark mop of hair.

“You told me you’ve had panic attacks before. Describe them to me.”

You looked at him with parted lips, taking in the sight of his face. His full lips, those amazingly blue eyes and high cheek bones. . . Beautifully arched brows. . .

Why would anyone want to cover such a face with a ragged sack?

You squirmed under his piercing gaze, wetting your lips again. “I-I think we too, have met before,”you spoke, your lips curving into a small, stiff involuntary smile. There was a touch of cold sweat at your brow. Your heart was beating slightly faster. You could feel it, hammering against your ribs. “At the roof top. . . I have faint memories —and I inhaled your toxin.” You licked your lips again, swallowing. “Even Joker let me go. . .”

Crane cocked a brow at you, his face darkening.

You took the hint, knowing he could gas you into oblivion with his fear chemicals. And with large enough dose, you wouldn’t be able to fool your brains anymore. . . This was his session, whether you wanted it or not.

“I had my first panic attacks when I was fourteen. I thought I was going to die. I couldn’t breathe and the whole world was spinning. I was drowning on air—”

“What caused it? Were you anxious, _frightened_ of something?” The psychologist spoke, nearly purring out the words.

“My parents were at a car crash, I got the call and had the attack,” you told truthfully.

Crane leaned closer, his glasses dropped to the tip of his nose. “And did this event traumatize you? Do the attacks always come when you experience something similar, a sudden phone call, late at night?”

You gasped, the air escaping from your lips as a soft exhale. “How did you know it was late at night?”

Crane smiled, if the expression could be called as such. It was more of a twitch of his mouth, a small curve of his full lips, shaping his mouth to a sensual, yet slightly cruel angle.

“And the later attacks? When did you learn to fool your brains, girl?” he asked. And there was a hint of a rasp in his voice. Scarecrow’s rasp.

“I-I just learned it sometime during high school,” you whispered, your eyes wide. You hadn’t noticed it, but Cranes hands had moved closer, resting now against your head, cupping your temples. His fingers were tangled in your hair, massaging your scalp.

“You lie. . .” he spoke. And this time, there was a full rasp in his voice. His eyes were dark, nearly black.

You shook your head, your eyes getting moist. “No. No! I’m not lying—”

“—But you keep things from me. That won’t do.”

He shifted away for a moment, and soon you could feel a sharp prick of a needle at your neck.

You cried out softly, closing your eyes, but as you opened them, ready to wake up in Arkham Asylum again, nothing had changed. You were still in the little room, with Jonathan Crane looming over you.

“Now tell me. . . when you got the call about your parents car crash, did the fear arouse you?”

You shook your head, feeling slightly slack. Perhaps it hadn’t been fear toxin after all, he had injected you with.

“No. Not then. I was just sad and shocked and the panic washed over me quickly. They were both all right, just in hospital. . . They’re still alive, just divorced. . .”

“And in high school? Why did the fear start to arouse you then?” Crane murmured softly. His hands had moved on your collar bones, making their way down your body to cup your breasts, one in each hand. Your nipples perked up by his touch, pressing against the black satin of your cocktail dress.

“I just learned to fight the panic. I’ve always liked horror movies, loved controlled fear,” you confessed silently.

“You told me you’re afraid of fear, yet it’s obvious you’re enjoying it. You are a voiding the truth. Why?” Crane asked. He had started to massage your breasts, pinching your nipples between his fingers.

You jerked in pleasure, your wrists and ankles tugging sharply against the restrains. Crane merely chuckled. It was a deep, throaty sound.

“Were you afraid of rape? Is that why you learned to fool your brains? To know that if it happened, you could keep your sanity by telling yourself you like it?”

He moved to the side of the table, climbing on top of you, hands grabbing firmly the cleavage of your dress.

And without a warning, he tore it open, all the way to the hem, exposing your black lace panties beneath.

You gasped, leaning your head back. Your heart was racing, your pussy moist enough to make your panties wet.

“No bra. . . what a _tease_ you are,” the master of fear murmured, running his thumb over a bare nipple, teasing it with a slow back and forth movement.

“No. No, I wasn’t scared of rape,” you gasped, fighting a moan as Crane continued his sadistic torture, moving down to tear your pantyhose off. His finger trailed on your lower belly, mimicking the line of your panties till he moved up again, looking you in the eye.

“What then? _Tell me_. . . what made you learn how to fool your brains?”

He leaned in, kissing your collarbone. He ran his tongue up your throat, leaving behind a hot wet trail —and you couldn’t take it anymore.

“I read an article,” you moaned, your brows knitting together. Your eyes were closed as your back arched against the cool table. “An article about fear and what happens in one’s brains during fear. I thought I could fool myself to think I was having fun, like while watching a horror movie!”

_“And?”_

“And I learned to embrace my fear, feel it as arousal,” you confessed, panting. 

“Whose article was it?” the master of fear murmured in your ear.

His lips were at your neck, nibbling, gentle, suggestive. His fingers rested at your thigh, stoking the soft flesh.

“Yours! Yours! It was yours!” You cried out, pushing your hips up.

And he kissed you, roughly claiming your mouth. The kiss was sweet, powerful, dominating —making you feel you were being thoroughly claimed and possessed. 

You opened your eyes, inhaling, your eyelashes fluttering with the rhythm of your rabid blinking. Your dress was still untorn, you noticed, slightly disoriented, trying to focus your gaze to the figure, looming over you.

 _“Mine?”_ Jonathan Crane breathed softly, amused, glasses down at his nose, his dark hair in perfect disarray. He was still watching you at the end of the table, his face a pleasant upside-down image of yours. His hands rested on both sides of your head, unmoving.

You nodded weakly, swallowing. “Your article helped me. . . to embrace my fear.”

Crane smiled at you, his eyes sparkling. He reached a cool long fingered hand to cup your cheek, leaning closer, closer, closer. . .

A sudden crashing sound made you jump and soon the room was filled with smoke. The light at the ceiling blinked and went dark.

And from the smoky darkness, came the brooding voice: “Let her go, Crane.”

You gasped, starting to struggle. The smoke you inhaled made you cough, made your eyes to run —and then, the Bat was upon you. Or more precisely, upon Scarecrow.

He rushed out of the darkness, taking a hit at Crane with a firm right hook, which send the psychologist flying to the floor.

You yelped, partly because of horror, partly because of sympathy. It would be a miracle if the Bat hadn’t broken Crane’s jaw with his armored fist. And then, he turned his attention towards you, slashing your restrains with the blades at his wrist.

“Run,” he growled, turning his eyes back towards Crane. He was getting up from the floor, spitting up blood. “Go to the street, the police are waiting!”

You ran, fearful and moist eyed, unwilling to stay in the same room with the Bat any longer. You came to a staircase soon enough, which led out to the street. Crane’s hideout had been almost at ground level. And just as Batman had said, four patrol cars of the GCPD awaited.

“Wha— Someone give her a jacket and put her in the car. Then take her to the hospital, she might need medical attention,” one of the officers said. The voice sounded familiar, but it took you a while to recognize it was Jim Gordon’s.

His orders were followed and a young officer gave you his jacket, opening a door to the backseat. You climbed in grateful, tired, worried and fearful. You had a mild hiccup, which could also have been a form of sobbing. In your current state, it was difficult to tell.

“What happened?” Gordon asked, coming by the car.

You looked up at him, pulling the jacket better over your shoulders. “Batman’s inside. He beat up Crane,” you told, suddenly wishing for a hot cup of coffee. It was cold. Your shoes were gone, as was your coat. It made you wonder would you ever get them back, or were they gone for good, as your pink velour outfit was?

As Gordon shifted, you could see Batman walk out of the building, with unconscious Crane on his shoulder. He put his limp form into the Batmobile, starting to approach your patrol car. You shuddered, turning your gaze. You still couldn’t bear to look at the Bat.

“It’s over,” his brooding voice spoke. “Take her to the hospital; I’ll take Crane back to Arkham.”

***

“I got Crane, Alfred. I’m taking him back to Arkham.”

“Thank heavens, sir! And Liz. . . I assume she’s alright?”

“Gordon’s taking her to the hospital. She seemed fine, just shaken. . .”

“I sense there is a ‘but’, sir,” the butler’s voice spoke. There was a hint of concern in it, even though Alfred was good at hiding it.

Bruce speeded up, taking a turn towards the island. It was raining again and the streets of Gotham shined wet and black in the night.

“Crane’s done something to her, Alfred. When I tried to talk to her at the alley, she was frightened of me, frightened enough to run straight into Crane’s arms. She was more afraid of me than she was of him.”

“That indeed sounds troubling, sir. Perhaps it does have something to with the hypnosis?”

“I doubt that. This was all Crane’s doing. And. . .”

“And, sir?”

“When I found her from his base Crane had her strapped to a table. He was holding her face almost in a romantic pose. . . Alfred I. . . It is possible Crane’s condition has gotten worse. It’s possible he was going to . . . violate Liz as a part of his experiment. . .”


	9. First night at the Lounge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You go work at the Lounge, in hopes to be taken in full time.  
> You meet someone from your past.  
> Someone who's hurt and jealous. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit more Crane for you, since you loved him so much.

Dr. Jonathan Crane lay on his familiar bed at the Asylum, eyes turned up towards the worn ceiling. His body ached from head to toes. His jaw was bruised, but luckily unbroken and all his teeth were still most likely intact. His right knee, twisted during his fight with Batman, pulsed with dull pain. Three of his ribs were fractured. The nurses, of course, had not given him any medication to relief the pain. Yet the master of fear barely minded.

His mind was far away, reconstructing the happenings of last night.

That young woman —Liz was it?— was the most intriguing specimen he had met in a long while. Not dull like that obnoxious Albright girl. What a waste of time had she been to him, an embarrassing fling . . . No: A slight miss calculation on his part. A miss calculation Jonathan preferred not to talk about.

But this Liz, she was different. Not only she feared fear, but enjoyed it. A curious thing. . . Perhaps her phobophobia was taking a turn towards phobophilia. Now there was a delicious thought. A thought Crane very much enjoyed.

 _“You want her, Jonny-boy,”_ Scarecrow’s raspy voice whispered in his ear. It was laced with dark amusement.

“She’s. . . unique,” Jonathan whispered out into the darkness. He wasn’t uncomfortable about Scarecrow’s presence. Hadn’t been in years. He was like a good friend, he could summon by will most of the time. A friend who made him strong and fearless —Helped him to do the things he couldn’t or wouldn’t have dared to do on his own. But he was also his subconsciousness, the voice of his darkest dreams and desires.

A distant scream echoed along the deserted corridors of the Asylum, soon followed by others. The worst crazies had gotten agitated again, as they so often did, when the master of fear was returned to the building. Perhaps they could sense him, the aura of terror that surrounded him, spreading, wrapping the rest of the inmates in its invisible shroud.

_“You want her. . . You want her like you wanted that Rebecca-girl. And look where that led us.”_

“This one’s different. She said my article helped her. That _I_ have helped her to deal with her fears—”

Scarecrow cackled, his sound filling the room like void. _“No need to get so defensive, Jonny-boy. I want her too. She’ll make a far better Mistress of Fear than that law school slut you fancied. Oh, this one likes fear already. Yearns for it! We’ll have her, Jonny-boy. Well have her and we’ll make her scream.”_

“I don’t want to hurt her. I have more questions—”

_“_ _—_ _And we’ll take it slow this time, Jonny-boy. This one takes more time and effort, than a jump scare and a free burlap bikini. But we’ll have her all right. And then, we’ll make her scream in terror and pleasure at the same time. You’d like that, Jonny-boy, wouldn’t you?”_

“Yes. . .”

The monkey-like screams became soon accompanied by the cries of the guards, soon followed by shrieks and howls of pain. The sounds echoed in Crane’s cell, slowly lulling him into sleep.

***

“Seriously, Uncle, I’m fine. The rest and hot coffee and hot showers worked miracles on me,” you told, adding lipstick while looking yourself from the hand mirror. “Steadily, please!” you added as the car hit a bump in the road, making you almost paint over.

“You rested for one day, Liz and kept coughing and sneezing the whole time. You’re over working yourself, cannot the museum give you one night off from your work, so you could rest properly?”

“Cannot Bruce give a one minute off your work, so _you_ could rest properly? And no. They cannot.”

Your words were more than true. You had skipped work unwilling on Wednesday night (much thanks to Dr. Crane) and gotten fired. But Uncle Alfred did not need to know that. Iceberg Lounge was your only hope now, and you wanted to do well. You needed the job. 

“Master Bruce hinted he might buy the museum,” Alfred told, stopping at traffic light, to let an old woman across. She was hiding under a huge umbrella. It was raining heavily again.

“Bruce would be insane to buy it, it is not a successful business,” you told, dropping the bright red lipstick and hand mirror into your purse. You were wearing your long coat and black knee high boots, kindly returned to you buy the GCPD as they had gone through Crane’s base.

“Master Bruce only wants to look after you, Liz. He’s quite taken by you, I’ve noticed.”

You said nothing. If Bruce bought the museum only to become your boss’ boss’ boss, it would be downright creepy. Not that it mattered anymore.

“Why an earth do you need to wear lipstick to clean up at the museum?” Alfred then asked. “You’re not getting to another job interview, I hope?”

“No. There’s a cute night guard at the museum. I wear it for him,” you replied, feeling bad. You didn’t want to lie to your uncle, but knew he would not let you work at the Lounge. “Just drop me off by the back door. I’ll take the morning buss home.”

“Master Bruce, and myself, insist that I shall pick you up. It’s for your own safety, Liz.”

“Fine,” you sighed. “Pick me up at 5am. Same spot.”

You would be finished at the Lounge at three, so you would have to figure out how to use those two extra hours. It was more believable that way.

Yet, you had to smile.

_Six hours work per night and it’ll pay triple to what I made at the museum. If they’ll take me in full time, I’ll be able to pay my own rent._

***

“You can wear the boots, since they’re the only shoes you have. The dress’ll do, black and short enough. You’ll take care of the salon _only_ , not the VIP-zone. You’re to mingle and entertain, not pursue. This is a night club, not a brothel, understood?”

You nodded, watching Tracey to blow a pink bubblegum balloon.

Geez, the nice lady turned into a total bitch, now that you were here to prove yourself.

“Smart girl. Now go show the gents a good time.”

You went, cursing the woman in your mind. Not only she had insulted your intelligence, but had pretty much let you know you weren’t a waitress, but an escort —just without sex part.

Yet you had to wonder, from what sort of serving the rumored big tips came from. . .

The salon area was nice enough, separated from the soundproof disco room and therefore remotely quiet. The furniture were dark, the upholstery red. In the middle of the room was the much spoken iceberg sculpture. On the walls, there were paintings of playing and diving penguins.

The salon was almost full, filled with men in fancy suits, playing poker and smoking cigars. Only one girl worked the salon besides you, a slender dark haired figure, with bright red lips and black eye shadow. You followed her methods for a while, watching how she moved from table to table, smiling, touching —And then, your eyes met the man at the bar. A man dressed in green.

You started your way towards him even before you realized the command had gone from your brains to your feet.

The Riddler finished his whiskey as if it had been a shot, turning to look at you his head cocked to the side. “Fancy seeing you here, Minx.”

“What are you doing here?” you blurted before you were able to stop yourself. Seeing him suddenly like this felt . . . unreal.

“I thought you were at least a little smarter than that, Minx. This is a bar. People come to bars to drink. What are _you_ doing here?”

“I’m working,” you told, taking in the sight of him. The neat reddish-brown hair, combed over his head. The perfectly fitting business suit, white shirt, green tie. . . No glasses. “But why are you here?” you inquired again, glancing around. “I thought you were supposed to . . . lay low. . .”

The Riddler’s mouth twitched, but not in a friendly way. “Sit down. Have a drink.”

“I said I’m working.”

“I heard you. I told you to sit down. Your job is to entertain. Now you entertain me, refuse and I’ll complain about you.” He waved and the barkeep brought you both a martini. There were two olives in each.

You sat down, glancing at the dark haired girl at the tables. He was entertaining a middle aged gentleman in the corner table, sitting on his lap and sipping from his drink.

The Riddler raised his brows at you. “The girls here drink, even though it is most likely just water in the glasses, unless they sip from the glasses of the customers. Oswald likes to save, wherever he can.”

You sipped your drink politely, like you had any other options. Complains meant no job and no job meant no money. No money meant you’d be stuck at the manor. . . Your drink was definitely vodka, though, which probably meant the barkeep did not know you were a working girl.

It must have been the boots. The other girls wore regular heels. Boots—and un-slutty behavior. . .

“You know the owner?” you asked, curious.

“Iceberg Lounge is much more than a night club, my dear. Many people like me are welcome here and no one pays us any attention, besides silent respect, of course. You’d do well to remember that, if you’re to work here.”

It did not answer the question, but you had a hunch the Gotham’s most wanted were regular customers at the Lounge. After all, most had been in Blackgate before Arkham had been re-opened. —And Bruce had told Cobblepot had been in Blackgate, twice.

“Well, Mr. Nigma. . . How can I entertain you?” you asked giving him a sultry smile, sipping your drink again. They were small sips, though, more like just wetting your lips. You knew better than to get drunk.

The Riddler’s mouth tightened slightly with your words.

“You weren’t home last night. Or two nights before that.”

Your smile faded slowly away with his words. “You were at my apartment, last night?”

He continued as if he had not heard you. “You were at Wayne Manor. You’ve been there for several nights, now, undoubtedly boned by the billionaire. What did he do, to have you finally fall into his charms?”

“I am not getting boned by anyone,” you whispered, agitated and embarrassed, glancing around. The bartender was far enough not to hear your conversation, and seemed otherwise uninterested. “I live there currently —unwillingly, because my uncle refused to pay my rent. I don’t like it there and that’s why I need this job, to be able to pay my rent.”

“Also,” you continued with much angrier tone, “None of this living arrangement shit would have happened, unless I hadn’t been kidnapped _for several times_. My uncle found out about it and demanded I live in the manor till all the criminals -meaning also you- are behind bars again. And how the hell do you know where I was?”

“I hacked and tracked your phone,” the Riddler replied softly, finishing his martini. “It is easy, for someone as talented as me.”

He waved to the barkeep again. “Make her my signature drink,” he told.

“I haven’t finished the last one,” you told, sour about his reveal.

 _He must know I was at Crane’s hideout the night before_. . . _And everything else I’ve done with my phone. . . Nosy little fucker._

“You finish it now. You want this job, don’t you, my dear. You _need_ it.”

“But I will not be able to keep it, if you get me drunk,” you said, finishing your martini.

The bartender got back to you, placing a green cocktail under your nose. “ _Green death_ , madam.”

You looked at the drink along your nose, glancing at the Riddler. His blue, green rimmed eyes burned with emotion. Anger? Frustration? Sadistic amusement?

“You’re not going to poison me, are you?” you asked, trying to make it sound like a joke.

The Riddler chuckled to your words. It was a dark chuckle. “No, my dear. It is merely for a taste.”

He rose, dropping a generous amount of money on the bar.

“A taste of what?” you asked after him. He did not turn to give you an answer.

You sighed, frowning: Hoping he would not complain about you.

_Fucking Riddler. . . Is he jealous or what?_

In a way, the thought of his jealousy was flattering. You sipped your green drink carefully, your eyes going wide. It was delicious with a mean after kick. The stuff was probably a mix of absinth, white rum and some other alcohols you couldn’t quite put your finger on. A touch of mint?

Whatever the case, it was way stronger than Long Island Iced Tea. . . and far more addictive. . . Seductive. . . A drink you’d always crave more, now that you had had a taste. . .

***

At 3:05 am, you headed back to the staff quarters. You had entertained, laughed, served drinks, fondled shoulders and kept on a happy flirty face for six hours. It was time to find out whether you were deemed worthy of a full time job.

“Did you have fun, Hun?” Tracey asked. She had taken off her high heels and was fixing her make-up in front of the mirror.

“More fun than I imagined. The job’s easy, too. I made some tips: do we split or am I allowed to keep them?” you asked.

“Girls keep what they make. It’s all yours, Hun.”

 _Holy shit_ , you thought, excited. _I just made 350 dollars of tax free money!_

“So,” you started carefully, “Did I do well enough to get the job. If so, can I do five nights a week? I know we discussed earlier about two nights, but I’d like to be taken in full time. . .”

“You’re in all right. The gents were very taken by you, though I think you could earn more, if you were blonder.”

“I can dye,” you told quickly.

Tracey gave you a knowing smile. “That’s my smart girl. What comes to the added nights. . . I’ll have to talk to Mr. Cobblepot about it. You can start with three nights, even though I earlier said two. One of our girls . . . does not work here anymore. You’d do Friday, Monday and Tuesday. That work for you?”

“More than well,” you smiled, even though they weren’t the nights you had worked at the museum. You’d have to cook up a clever lie.

You left the stuff’s quarters ten minutes later, wondering what to do with your two extra hours. You had asked Tracey whether you could have spent it at the Lounge, but she had declined, telling they’d be shutting down for the night. Perhaps there was an open joint somewhere, where you could sit warm and dry. You recalled seeing a burger place close to the Lounge. Places like that tended to be open pretty much around the clock. After all, Gotham’s night life was busy and people got hungry.

You made your way down the stairs, following the last of the leaving clients. They were on merry spirits, passing by a shadowy corridor, leading deeper into the Lounge. To the loading area, maybe?

You were just about to follow them, when there was a click of a gun behind your back.

“Don’t run or scream. Walk backwards slowly and put your hands against the wall.”

“Eddie?”

“Oh, it is ‘Eddie’ now, is it? What happened to Mr. Riddler, sir?” The Riddler murmured, mockingly, pulling you roughly to the corridor as you made no move to obey him. He pushed your hands against the wall, the cool metal of his gun pressed against the back of your neck.

You shivered, surprised, slightly startled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Riddler. I did not mean to upset you,” you breathed out, trying to look at him over your shoulder.

His hand was on you on an instant, grabbing your neck, forcing you to keep your eyes forward.

“You did not mean to upset me,” the Riddler murmured. “You left me _humiliated_!” He growled.

The sudden anger in his voice made you jerk.

“You left me humiliated —and went straight into the arms of that playboy. . .”

 _Humiliated?_ It took a moment till your brains registered he meant the scene at his base. How he had gone off to . . . and had tried to visit you at least twice. . .

“I didn’t,” you gasped. “I don’t even like him. He bores me. Annoys me. . . H-he cannot stimulate me intellectually. . . ”

“Compared to me,” the Riddler murmured, “he cannot stimulate you at all. Spread your legs.”

You did, your breath quickening. The Riddler’s hands landed on your waist, starting their way down along your hips, slipping on your thighs. . .

“The Iceberg Lounge is not the kind of place you think it is, my dear Minx. You should be checked for hidden weapons. . .” And with those words, his hands slipped up your skirt. His adept finger stroked your inner thigh, brushing briefly over your mound, barely touching it.

You started to get wet. And bothered.

“Please. . . Mr. Riddler. . .”

“Please what?” His fingers landed on your mound again, painfully feather-like. His other hand had moved up and was now rubbing you butt in slow teasing circles.

“Touch me. . . please touch me. . .”

The Riddler chuckled, pressing his chin on your shoulder. His left hand trailed up to cup your breast. His breath brushed your ear, hot and arousing.

“I preferred _Eddie_ ,” he whispered, spinning you around, claiming your mouth.

His kiss was rough and passionate, slightly playful. And most definitely smug. He knew what he was doing. . . Locking his body against yours, pulling your leg up to his waist while stroking you with his other hand, slowly, teasingly, his long finger moving back and forth on your slit, making you moan into his mouth.

“Fuck me Eddie. . . please fuck me,” you murmured, rocking yourself against his palm. He slipped a tongue in your mouth, grinning into the kiss.

You reached for his front, willing to give him a little bit something in return but he seized your wrist, pinning it high above your head. Your knuckles scraped against the wall, but you barely minded. He pressed his hips against yours and you were able to feel his bulge, pressing against you, making you squirm and gasp in your building arousal.

“You want that, Minx?” he murmured, nibbling your neck, making you pant harder. You were getting close, a willing victim of his skilled fingers.

You nodded, your eyes closed, your brows knitting together as your orgasm approached. “Yes. Yes! I want you!”

Your muscles tightened as your body got ready to its sweet release —and the Riddler pulled away, slicking his hair back.

“Well then, Minx,” he whispered darkly, looking at you under his brow. “You’ll have to wait. I’m going to leave you hot and bother, aching, wanting . . . _humiliated_ —And we’re going to repeat this as many times as I deem necessary.”

“W-we’re not going to fuck?” you asked weakly, disappointed. Just as humiliated as the Riddler wanted you to be.

Damn. . . you must have given quite a hit to his pride at this base. . .

“Oh we’re going to fuck, Minx. When I choose we will.” Then, he turned to leave.

“Where are you going?” you called after him, leaning heavily to the wall. Your knees felt weak.

“To my room. I bunk at the Lounge,” the Riddler called over his shoulder.

He had a room? _Here?_

“You’re a cruel man, Edward Nigma!” you called, fighting a grin.

You heard him laugh as he made his way up the stairs.

You sat down on the floor, exhaling, checking your phone. It was 3:35.

You still had about an hour and a half to kill.

You grinned. Perhaps in the future, Edward could help you to spend those two extra hours, you needed to fool your uncle. . .


	10. The owner of the Lounge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You finally get to meet 'Uncle' Oswald. . .

“She was at the Lounge, Alfred. I tracked her phone. She did not set foot inside the museum at Friday night.”

Alfred looked at Bruce, holding the tray with firm hands. He felt . . . slightly insulted. It was Sunday eve and Bruce had had the time to tell him.

Alfred set the tray on the edge of the batcomputer, clasping hands behind his back. “That is indeed troubling, sir. I would never have suspected it; I picked her up at the backdoor of the museum.”

“She’s trying to hide things from us —And I think she suspects her phone’s been high jacked. She has covered the cameras with stickers. She did so soon after returning home from the Lounge.”

“Should I talk to him, sir? As much as I support Liz’s independence, I do not wish her to work at the Lounge.”

Bruce thought the butler’s words for a while, scratching his chin. “No. I’ll talk to her. It has become clear I do better as myself, than as Batman.”

“Indeed, sir. Crane’s fear gas has only made things worse for poor Liz, though she never was a fan of Batman to begin with.”

Bruce looked at him, arching a brow. “And you didn’t share this with me earlier?”

“I did not deem it relevant, sir. Or saw it proper considering the manner of her. . . thoughts on the Caped Crusader.”

“What did she say?”

“If you allow it, sir, Liz called Batman as a deeply disturbed, abusive madman, who wears underwear on top of a leotard and would end his days sooner or later by taking a wrong dive off a building.”

“I expected worse,” Bruce said after a while. His lips quirked slightly upwards. “Luckily I wear plated Kevlar armor now, instead of the much loathed underwear. . .”

“Indeed, sir, though those were the comments Liz made when she was sixteen, her comments are much more analytic and crueler now, I fear.”

“I see,” Bruce sighed, rising. “Never the less, I must confront her about her recent actions. Perhaps I’ll manage to talk some sense into her.”

Alfred watched him go, glancing at the metal tray. Sometimes he wondered what was the point in bringing food to the batcave? While working down here, Master Bruce rarely remembered to eat. 

***

You squirmed, groaning into your pillow.

Had things gone too far? Gotten out of hand?

You had been involved with lots of criminals, lately. Willingly and not willingly. . .

They had touched you, abused you, kissed you. . . And you had enjoyed it: Perhaps not so much with the Joker, since he had pulled a gun at you and knocked you unconscious, but with the rest of them —Especially the Riddler.

Tomorrow. . . Just till tomorrow night and you could go back to the Lounge. . .

You sighed again, crossing your legs under the blanket. There was a hot heavy feeling at your lower belly.

The Riddler had left you frustrated, aching and embarrassed.

But he had also made you to think.

He had pulled gun at you, just like the Joker had, and dragged you to a deserted corridor to finger you to a near orgasm —just because you had unintentionally _and unwillingly_ humiliated him in his base.

 _He should have pulled that gun on Joker for bringing me to him in the first place. . ._ you thought, wondering what had happened to the Clown Prince of Crime. Undoubtedly, he was up to something and would surprise Gotham yet again with some megalomaniacal, deadly and cartoonish ploy.

You sighed again, pulling the blanket over your head.

Did you even want anything to do with the Riddler —a criminal who had been committed to Arkham for several times, who wanted to sexually humiliate you just to boost his own overgrown ego?

Your pride said no.

The thought about his hungry lips on yours made your body say _yes_.

The things you had witnessed him do over the years made your mind also say yes.

You appreciated his creativity, his humor, his genius. Besides, you doubted he would have pulled the trigger the other night, but still. . .

On the other hand, the Riddle-man loved puzzles. Perhaps you could toy with him a little, to even things up. Play hard to get? Be the mystery he would have to solve?

That could be fun.

And if he was going to leave you sexually frustrated . . . well. . . you could always return to favor. Make him think, how long he actually wanted to toy with you.

 _And of course_ , you thought taking out your vibrator; _you didn’t have to remain frustrated._ Only anticipating about the future nights you might spend in the Riddle-man’s bed. . .

You had just gotten on the mood, getting on with your fantasy about how the night in Riddler’s hideout should have ended, when there was a knock on the door.

You switched off the vibrator, listening.

And to your horror the door opened.

“Amber, are you still awake? I saw light under the door. . .”

“Jesus, Bruce!” you cried out, pulling the blanket to your chin. “A little privacy, please!”

At least you had turned the bunny off on time. The billionaire had no clue what you had been doing. Still, being hot, wet and feeling extremely interrupted while hiding a sex toy under the covers wasn’t on your list of comfortable or desirable situations.

“I’m sorry if I’m intruding,” Bruce spoke, to your surprise and outrage, closing the door behind him, “but I guessed you’d still be awake and I wanted to talk.”

“Well it’s your house,” you replied, drawing your knees up. “Closed, lockless doors are merely suggestions.”

If Bruce had gotten the hint, he did not care. He took a seat on the edge of the bed instead.

_The nerve of this guy. . ._

“Amber. . .” He kept a pause, looking at his feet. As he rose his gaze there was a small awkward smile on his lips. “You have dyed your hair.”

“Obviously,” you replied. It took effort not to roll your eyes.

Bruce smiled. “It suits you nicely.”

You knew. Your hair was light golden blonde now, not too bleached, but natural. Tasteful. It could have been your own color, though compared to it this color was much lighter. Jervis would have digged it. In a way, it was very ‘Alice.’

“May I call you Liz?” Bruce then asked out of the blue.

“No,” you frowned; hoping he would realize you wanted him the hell out of your room.

Bruce seemed to be at loss of words for a moment, till he grew serious.

“I know you work at the Iceberg Lounge, Amber. I’d like you to stop, get work somewhere else. You’re getting involved with dangerous people, more dangerous than you realize. And you have been kidnapped by Scarecrow, most likely the Mad Hatter, the Riddler. . .”

“How do you know I was kidnapped by the Riddler?” you interrupted, horrified. This shit was getting weird.

Bruce was silent for a while, till he sighed deeply. “How did you get away from the criminals, did Batman save you?”

“The Riddler let me go,” you told truthfully, caught slightly off guard. “When he caught Batman cheating he told me to ask him a riddle. If he could not answer it correctly, he’d let me go.”

“What an earth did you ask him?”

“The good old ‘why’s raven like a writing desk’. It has been bothering people for god knows how long and there’s no solid existing answer.”

“I’m surprised he didn’t kill you,” Bruce confessed.

You shrugged. “Not half as surprised as I am. He _was_ pretty pissed.”

“And the rest, did they let you go as well?”

“What a fucking third degree interrogation is this?” you snapped, “And how the hell do you know about the Riddler —Or that I work at the Lounge?”

“Don’t you think this is important, Amber?” Bruce asked as if he had not heard your questions. “If you interact with these criminals, if they let you go unharmed . . . the Batman might think you’re one of them. . .”

You grew pale with Bruce’s words. The thought hadn’t even crossed your mind. You were normal. A law binding citizen. Your worst and only crime had been downloading music illegally during your teens. The thought of the Bat, hunting you in the night. . .

“How do you know where I’ve been, Bruce?” you asked again, your voice cracking slightly.

His eyes were steel, as he met your gaze. “I had your phone tracked.”

“You what!?”

This was getting too far. This was fucked up.

He had demanded you’d live under his roof. He had planned to buy the museum you worked at. And now, he had had your phone tracked. . .

“It’s a Waynetech phone, it was easy to track. . . I was worried about you.” He kept a pause.

You looked at Bruce with a mild sneer on your face. His concern was touching, but tracking your phone had been a bit too possessive. . .

It was almost funny you hadn’t been nearly as bothered or offended, when Eddie had made the same confession. . .

“Get out of here, Bruce,” you whispered. “I don’t remember shit about being a hostage. And I don’t want to talk about it. I did not want it or ask for it.”

“Alfred will stop paying your rent, unless you leave your job,” Bruce told, rising.

 _He would, wouldn’t he?_ You thought, watching Bruce go. He shut the door silently after himself. Well fucking shit! If your uncle wanted you to live at the streets, then fine! But this sure as hell would be your last night in the manor. . .

***

The taxi dropped you at the front door of the Lounge, letting you slip in nice and dry. The drive from the manor to your apartment and then to the Lounge had eaten most of the tips you had earned last Friday, but it was worth it. It was also necessary: Uncle Alfred had not agreed to drive you anywhere and the walk to downtown with a suitcase would have been nearly impossible to make. —Or at least bothersome.

“Hey, Hun! Looking good! Love the hair,” Tracey greeted you as you entered the staff’s quarters, wearing a short black dress, heels and fishnet stockings. They were a little ad-on, to bring some extra flavor to your outfit.

“Thanks Trace. Did you have a chance to talk to Mr. Cobblepot, about taking me in full time? I’d be willing to do five nights a week, or more.”

“Aww, sorry, Hun. Mr. Cobblepot has been busy, but I’ll do my best. The good news is you get to do the three nights we agreed on. That still good with you?”

“It sure is,” you smiled, knowing this was one of those ‘That still good with you, or do you want to work someplace else?’ type of questions.

The salon was surprisingly full for a Monday night, you saw, scanning to room. There was no sign of the Riddler.

 _Perhaps Monday is for the regular people and Friday is for the villains_ , you thought, shrugging, starting to go through the tables clockwise. The dark haired girl who had been there the last time had been replaced by a read head.

It was bad, even with your new hair. Red heads made good tips.

She was bold too, sitting on every lap and pressing her bosom against the backs of the poker players. Your bosom was natural, though, you noticed to your benefit —and still larger than the read head’s.

This notice, to say the very least, was quite the shiatsu massage to your ego.

Around midnight there was some shouting coming from the VIP-zone, along with the crashes and clinking of breaking glass. And soon, two tall men, most likely guards of some sort, escorted three other men out.

“You, get in there and get Mr. Cobblepot a drink,” the other of the guards, a bald angry looking African-American snarled at you while pushing the men closer to the exit.

You hesitated. Tracey had specifically told you not to go to the VIP-zone, but on the other hand, it was unwise to ignore a direct order from another staff member, who, obviously, outranked you.

And so, you snuck to take a peek between the curtains that divided the VIP-zone from the salon. The space was decorated with similar colors to the salon, only it was smaller and more intimate. More fabric, more seating and just one poker table in the middle of the room, currently knocked over. The chips and cards lay all over the floor.

“Is that drink coming or not,” a gruff impatient voice asked. The voice belonged to the only person in the room, who had been sitting at your blind spot, occupying the red couch next to the private bar. He was about his mid forties, short and dark haired, with a little bit of meat on his bones, making him soft. On his left eye he wore a monocle —or at least you assumed it was a monocle. You didn’t need to guess twice who he was. . .

“What shall it be, Mr. Cobblepot?” you asked sweetly, walking towards the bar.

The Penguin’s gaze followed you, you could tell, studying you from head to toe. And your ass. You could tell he was mostly studying your ass.

“I don’t remember seeing you before,” Cobblepot observed, sounding a lot cheerier than he had done a moment ago.

“I am Liz, the new girl,” you smiled, waiting for instructions what to fill his glass with. “Perhaps Tracey has mentioned me?”

“She hasn’t.”

“Huh, well that’s a shame. What shall the drink be?” you asked, hand resting on your hip. You tried not to let your mood show.

 _Tracy you little bitch. . ._

She hadn’t even let Cobblepot to know you had been hired. It was no wonder you did only three nights a week, for now. . .

Cobblepot took a long time considering, taking in your pose.

His stare felt slightly awkward. But on the other hand, this was a perfect opportunity to talk to him about your further employment. . . It was obvious Tracey wouldn’t do it.

“A martini,” the Penguin spoke, making an indifferent wave towards the bar.

You did as you were told, handing him the drink.

“Why so pouty, love? Something bothering you?”

You hadn’t realized your frustration had showed outwards. . .

“I am sorry, Mr. Cobblepot. I am having some personal troubles. I will not let them affect my work.”

“Oswald, darling. Call me Oswald. What troubles might those be?”

You didn’t feel much like sharing, but avoiding the question completely would have been impolite and so you decided to keep your reply as vague as possible: “Just a little trouble with my current apartment. Nothing to get concerned about, Mr. –Oswald,” you finished awkwardly.

The Penguin smiled, not especially prettily –and you liked to think not perversely– tapping his knee. “Sit down, love. Tell Uncle Oswald all about it.”

You hesitated. This was a situation that might escalate quickly, in one way or the other, but, then again, it wasn’t the first lap you had sat on tonight, even though you liked to avoid doing it. This was the owner’s lap, though. . .

You smiled, deciding it was for the best to do as Cobblepot wanted and so, you took a seat on his knee.

_Uncle Oswald. . . Jesus. . . That’s one step from calling him daddy. . ._

“I am having troubles paying my rent. My uncle used to pay it for me, but now he won’t do it anymore. I do only three nights a week, that’s not enough to keep the roof over my head.”

It sounded bad as soon as you had said it. It could just as well have been: _‘I’m having troubles paying my rent, Uncle Oswald. Should I kneel or spread my legs so you’ll give me money?’_

You could almost hear Eddie’s voice inside your head, calling you an idiot. . .

It made you wonder where the Riddle-man was. You hadn’t seen a glimpse of him the whole night.

Oswald looked at you in silence for a while. His hand had found its way around your waist, resting warm against the small of your back. His nose was slightly beak-like. His complexion was rather fair, with a touch of freckle-like pattern on his face. There was a touch of laugh lines at the corners of his mouth.

Oddly enough, his looks were almost pleasant. Gentlemanly. With just a hint of cruelty around his mouth.

“Could I be taken in full time?” you hurried to ask, smiling, to avoid giving wrong impressions. “Tracey already promised to ask it on my behalf, but I guess she hasn’t. . .”

“Yes . . .That can be managed. I could use a girl like you, love,” Cobblepot told, smiling “How’d you like to serve here at VIP-zone, dear? Work as my personal . . . secretary?”

“Secretary?”

“Yes, love. You’d smile, serve drinks. . . take a peek at the other players cards, you catch my drift?” The Penguin asked with a smirk. His hand rubbed your back softly. “You’d get your cut of course, to cover up the lost tips. Let’s say. . . two percent of the winnings.”

Two were better than nothing, you supposed and so you nodded, giving him a bright, polite smile. “I’d like that a lot, Mr. Cobblepot.”

“Oswald, love. Oswald. You’re a part of the Penguin family now,” he told, bringing his martini glass to your lips.

You couldn’t fail to notice, he had made you sip from the same edge he had. . .

***

You left the Lounge just after 3:00 am, confused, happy and slightly disappointed.

You had a permanent well paying job now, much to Tracy’s displeasure. You’d do five nights a week, dressed in an evening gown and jewelry. Cobblepot would provide the dress for you, he had told, as you needed something more fitting for the VIP-zone —You would have to look like a knockout all over, being his personal arm candy now.

_Uncle fucking Oswald indeed. . . Already providing me with expensive stuff. . ._

On your way out, you noticed a familiar man in green, leaning to a wall with a cigarette in hand.

“I did not know you smoke,” you said, fighting a smile. And here you had thought the Riddle-man had completely forgotten you.

“I don’t,” the Riddler replied, putting the cigarette out by pressing it to a wall. “A smoker draws less attention, than a random man, looking like he’s waiting for someone.” He wore the same suit, just with a black shirt and purple tie. He did not return your smile. “I texted you, you did not reply.”

“How do you have my . . . oh right.” If he could hack and track your phone, he surely had his ways to get your number. 

“I kept my phone offline. . .” You hesitated. The Riddler did not need to know what Bruce had done. As much as you loathed the billionaire at the moment, you didn’t want Nigma to cause him harm.

The Riddler, shrugged, sighing. “Well, no matter. You’re here now. I love what you’ve done with your hair.” He leaned in, ready to pull you into his arms.

You stopped him, the threat of the Bat fresh in your mind. “I don’t know if we should. . .”

The Riddler narrowed his eyes as he reached to brush your cheek with his green leather covered knuckles. His arm had snuck its way around your waist, bringing you closer. You could feel his hips press against yours, crumbling your willpower.

“Having second thoughts, are we?” he asked softly.

You shook your head, biting your lip. You did your best not to rock your hips against his.

“Good,” the Riddler murmured, lips inches away from yours. His blue eyes rested half closed, as did yours. “I want you in my room, Miss Pennyworth. I had some special plans in mind. . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this took a while because I was juggling with Oswald's looks.  
> In the end, I made him tip towards the Oswald in the Gotham TV series, than the Penguin in the Arkham verse.  
> Just made him older, like in the photoshopped pic he's in with Eddie and Jeremiah.  
> His personality is sort of a mix in this, though.


	11. The dirty riddle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You go into Edward's room, mostly for his pleasure. . .

You entered Eddie’s room giddy, nervous and anticipating.

It was a nice, dimly lit suite with a double bed, desk, TV and small table with two chairs. The curtains were drawn, but you guessed there was a door leading to the balcony. The room was almost at the top floor of the lounge.

“I’d prefer if we kept the balcony door closed,” Eddie told after seeing your wandering gaze.

“Because of Batman?” you asked, still wondering whether your decision to follow the Riddler into his room had been a wise one. But then again, how could you have resisted?

“Exactly, my Minx. Do you like Italian food in cardboard boxes?” he then asked, a phone in hand.

You nodded, surprised. “Sure. Won’t you get caught, if you order food here, or do you use someone else’s’ name?”

The Riddler smiled faintly, but amused. “The orders are delivered at the front door, a staff member will bring them up if I text them a room number. No one suspects a thing; it would hardly be the first time, when Oswald orders pizza or sushi. —I’m allowed to use his name.”

You nodded, assuming it was probably true. The Penguin had looked like he was a friend of good food. “You two know each other well?”

“Well enough to call it friendship of sorts, I would assume. Any allergies?” Edward asked.

“Gluten.”

He smirked. “The chefs are going to hate you for that. Gluten free pasta from a scratch at three in the morning. . .” He typed the order, putting away his phone. “The food should be here within half an hour.”

“Was offering me a very late dinner the special plan you had in mind?” you asked, flattered and amused. Eddie was good at the unexpected.

“Yes and no,” the Riddler murmured, pulling you into his arms.

You looked up at him, smiling, studying his face. His bright blue, green-rimmed eyes. The arch of his brows, the soft laugh lines, the luscious reddish brown hair, combed neatly over his head.

“Why aren’t you wearing glasses?” you murmured, captivated by the Riddler’s eyes.

“I’m farsighted,” he murmured back. You supposed it was true, on several levels.

“What are the other plans you had in mind?”

“So many questions, my Minx. . .” he whispered, claiming your mouth. His kiss was greedy, slow and controlled. Possessive. Perhaps just a hint forceful. . .

His snuck his arm around your waist, bringing you closer.

“Did you miss me, Minx?” he asked, his breath brushing your ear. His lips had moved on your neck, seeking your sweet spot. “Did you lay awake at night, thinking about me? About the things I’d do to you?”

You nodded weakly, holding back a moan. Eddie nibbled at your neck, smirking against your skin.

“Were you frustrated? Did you ache for me?” the Riddler murmured, nibbling at your ear. His hand slipped to rise the hem of your dress, reaching to stroke your cunt from behind.

You cried out, your body jerking in pleasure. “Yes! Yes Eddie! Oh God yes!”

“Good,” the Riddler growled, pulling your hips roughly against his own. You could feel his erection, pressing against your lower belly. And you started to rock your hips, eyes nearly closed, neck arched in anticipating pleasure. 

The Riddler’s lips landed on your collar bone, trailing up. The tip of his tongue touched your neck, moving up to stop just below your ear with one slow lick.

“Get on the bed, Minx,” he whispered.

You did, watching him to start to remove his jacket, gloves and tie.

“Take your stockings off,” he instructed, observing you. “Slowly. Lie on your back and lift your hips while taking them off,” he added.

You did as you were told, slowly starting to slide off the stockings, while lifting your hips. And the whole time, you kept your eyes on the Riddler. He looked right back at you, his eyes burning, the front of his pants looking painfully tight. You had to admit, he removed his tie rather aggressively, before joining you on the bed, crawling on top you right between your opened legs.

He kissed you again, hungrily, passionately, hands adventurous on your body. The bulge of his erection rested against your moist panties, and you had to say, he was fair in size.

His hand moved down to cup your breast as he kissed his way down your open cleavage. His thumb rubbed your nipple through the fabric, slowly circling it, making it hard.

“Look at you,” the Riddler murmured, pleased. “You’re almost ready to cum and I haven’t even taken your clothes off. . . But will I let you to cum?”

So it was this kind of game again. . .

You moaned silently, feeling adventurous and slightly vengeful, wrapping your legs around his waist, locking him against your body, starting to rock your hips.

The Riddler grunted, surprised, swallowing. “Minx. . .” there was a touch of warning in his voice.

You chose not to take the hint, but continued, holding him tighter, bringing him closer.

“Stop it Minx. I’m warning you. . . Stop squirming!” He growled, gritting his teeth.

You let him go, realizing it was for your own good. If you humiliated him again by making him cum into his pants, he’d probably kill you. . .

The Riddler pulled away, slicking his hair back, glaring at you under his brows.

“Let me touch you, Edward,” you murmured, your gaze hazy, your cheeks glowing. “Let me take care of you. . .”

_Let me fuck you. . ._

He considered your words for a while, until his ego took the better of him.

“No,” he snapped, rising from the bed. “I had hoped this little surprise could have been saved for later,” he murmured, walking to take something from the drawer, “But you forced my hand, my dear. . .”

It was a see-though packet with green . . . anal beads. . . ?

“That’s not going into my ass,” you told right away, eyeing the string of neon green pearls, attached to each other with a slightly bendy plastic stem. The packet was new, unopened: Had he gotten the beads just for you?

The Riddler gave you a dark smirk. “Don’t worry. I planned to use it on you more . . . traditionally. Spread your legs and lie still, Minx. . .”

He crawled back on the bed, running his knuckles against your lace covered crotch.

“My, my. . . so wet. . .” he whispered in approval, pushing your panties to the side. He pressed the first bead against your entrance, looking at you, taking in your expression. —And he pushed the beads in, slowly.

You gasped at the sudden sensation, making the Riddler smirk. “You have never done this before?” he murmured in amused question, easing another bead in. “They stimulate you rather nicely . . . also a very safe choice when one does not know a woman’s preference in the size of sex toys —or the level or her experience. . .”

The Riddler thought you were. . . a virgin?

“W-was that a question?” you asked, panting.

The Riddler looked down at you, smiling, almost casually. “Perhaps,” he told, yanking the beads partly out, before pushing them back.

The gesture made your back arch in pleasure. You were getting close to your orgasm.

“Please, Eddie. . .” you murmured, reaching for him, trying to touch him to provoke him to fuck you, but he grabbed your wrist, pressing your hand back down.

“No, no, no, no. No . . . I am in charge here, Minx. This is about humiliating you, not giving you pleasure. . .” And he thrust the pearls a bit deeper, making them touch your sensitive spot, making your entire body to jerk. . .

And there was a knock on the door.

“That would be our food,” Eddie told sweetly, yanking the beads out softly, making you whine in frustration. You had been so close. . .

He walked casually to the door, cracking it open just enough to take the delivery. Then he turned to look at you, smiling, smug, amused.

There was a little bit of sweat at his brow. His eyes were dark pools, taking in the sight of you, flushed; spread legged on his bed, your panties soaked because of things he had done to you.

“Hungry?” he asked with an amused boyish shrug, starting to place the contents of the plastic bag on the small table.

_Fucking Nigma. . . Still hard and acting so casual. He’s got more nerve than Bruce!_

Your pride, much as the Riddler’s ego, took the better of you just then.

“No,” you told casually, looking at the Riddler between your still parted legs. “I’d rather you fuck me. _Hard._ ”

His head snapped up with your words, the cardboard box of pasta nearly slipping from his fingers.

“You’re trying to provoke me, Minx,” he then said, that dangerous softness creeping into his voice as he stalked towards the bed.

“You want me to ravage you, is that it? Surely you must know just how tempting you look right now: Flushed cheeks, dark eyes, that messy hair. . . So I must ask: Do you really think it wise, to provoke a man _like me_?” he purred, grabbing your ankles, pulling you under him along the bed.

He loomed over you, eyes dark, holding you down. His fingers were cages of iron around your wrists.

“Unlucky for you, Minx,” he breathed after a while, collecting himself, “We’re not going to fuck tonight. You’re not humiliated enough yet,” he added, pushing himself off the bed.

“Are you going to eat or not?” he asked.

“Yes,” you replied grudgingly, rising from the bed. You had begun to wonder just how humiliated the Riddle-man wanted you to be. Surely you couldn’t get much more humiliated and horny than this. You hoped. . .

Eddie pulled you a chair. He looked. . . sour.

It made you wonder just how much of his self control you had managed to crumble tonight. . . How much you’d dare to push him? How long would have to push him?

***

You left the Lounge about half an hour later, switching your phone back on. There was a message from Tracey.

_Cobblepot gives you tomorrow off._

_He wants you 8:30pm on Wednesday._

_Your attire will be delivered to your home address_

_tomorrow around noon._

Half an hour earlier than usually, huh? Probably to brief you, whether he’d want you to peek at the cards, or distract the other players or just stand around and look pretty.

There was also the message Eddie had sent you earlier.

_I thought about you last night, Minx._

_Why don’t we stimulate that mind of yours a little:_

_What is slippery when wet and very loud?_

_Answer: You, my dear, when I have you in my room_

_later tonight._

_Just a little something for you to think about,_

_till we get there._

_-?_

You had to grin. Cheeky, but amusing. Very cheeky. And mostly true.

Eddie had kissed you goodbye when you had left the Lounge, his tongue hot in your mouth. His hands greedy on his body, exploring: familiarizing every single inch and curve. To think about, it had almost felt like he had wanted you to stay, despite your mostly silent and slightly awkward late dinner.

He would probably have asked you to spend the night; you liked to think, unless he had gotten that text message. Something urgent, he didn’t want to involve you in. You had taken the hint. And it was probably better, too —The less you knew about anything, the better. And the Bat might just leave you alone as well. . .

***

“Her phone’s back online, Alfred.”

“That is good to hear,” the butler sighed, relieved. He had been worried, for a while. Ever since Liz had left the manor, actually.

“She just left the Lounge. . . over an hour after the closing time,” Bruce told, staring at the batcomputer. “Something’s up, Alfred. I just don’t know what it is yet. . .”

“Nothing serious, I hope?”

“No,” Bruce said slowly. “Probably not. I think she might be blackmailed, or working for Cobblepot in hope to earn more money. . .”

“I never knew Liz would take my threat about her rent so seriously. Perhaps if I told her the truth, made a promise I will continue paying it. . .”

“If she’s being blackmailed it won’t help. She was Riddler’s hostage to beguine with, blackmail is his specialty. I think I should try to talk to her one more time, try to make her open up.”

“As Batman, sir?”

“No, as myself. I’ll apologize for tracking her phone; try to persuade her to return to live here.”

“You would do that, Master Bruce?”

“I’ll try. I must, before she runs into the Joker. . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over a 100 comments! (my replies included)  
> Thank you all for your support! <3  
> And a link for those who're not yet sure what 'Uncle' Oswald looks like: 
> 
> https://www.instagram.com/p/BvXuqW0H6FA/


	12. Joke's on you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has a confession to make.   
> You get plenty of gifts and attention.  
> And end up in a complicated situation.

Edward Nigma sighed, letting warm water flow down his body. His eyes were closed; his reddish brown hair lay slicked on his high forehead, dripping wet. His hand rested against the cool tiles of the shower. With the other one, he was stroking himself. Slowly.

The Minx had been rather ravenous last night, he thought, his pace increasing steadily. His breaths became shorter, almost like panting. And she had pushed his limits.

It wouldn’t do.

No one pushed Edward Nigma around —in any way. No one _humiliated_ him! Not without a punishment, at least. . .

Tonight he would fuck her . . . not because she had pushed him to the limits of his control, but because he wanted to. He was the one in control, not driven by some . . . loathsome primal urges. He was way too smart for it.

But god . . . he wanted her. Of course he did! She was an attractive woman, bright, too. Good enough for a billionaire, so naturally she was good enough for him. The biggest difference was, the billionaire wasn’t good enough for her. But he was. He definitely was. And why wouldn’t he be? After all, he was the smartest man in Gotham, brilliant in everything he did. —And the Minx would come to find it out soon enough. . .

Edward begun to pant, his brows knitting together into an anticipating frown. His lips quirked up into a small grin.

Tonight he would take her to bed —and he would take his sweet time with her. Show her just how good he was: How much better he was than Bruce Wayne. And the Minx would scream out his name, as he made her cum over and over again, in every way possible. . .

Edward grunted, leaning heavily to the wall. His release had been most. . . intense.

Not as intense as the Minx’s would be, though. To think of it, perhaps he should humiliate her just a little more. Send her a little gift to prolong her agony before her most wonderful release in his skilled hands. . .

***

You mulled over the happenings of the past weeks, staring into your coffee cup.

A lot had changed in your life during a short time. The Joker had broken into your apartment, kidnapped you, and made you involved with the Gotham’s criminals. . . The Hatter thought you were Alice, while Crane obviously considered you as an interesting test subject for his fear related experiments, which, luckily and embarrassingly, had provided you with lots of pleasure. And the Riddler. . . he had somehow turned from sadistic kidnapper to your egocentric lover. . .

You had a new job as well. A well paying one; with a chance to earn a little extra, whenever Oswald happened to win. You hoped it would be often.

He had been very kind to you. Perhaps too much so. . .

 _Uncle Oswald. . ._ You snorted, sipping your coffee. The dress should arrive any moment now. Hopefully it would be something classy and not too revealing.

You frowned in irritation as your thoughts darted to Bruce. That phone tracking thing had been an ass thing to do. Not that it had been much better done by Eddie.

To think about it, the Riddle-man probably didn’t know you had been in Crane’s base a while back, or at least he hadn’t brought it up.

 _Perhaps he wasn’t tracking me on that day_ , you reasoned —And hoped: You hated to think Eddie would be okay with you spending time with all the criminals, or more precisely; okay with you spreading your legs for them.

You scowled at your own thoughts. You hadn’t spread your legs to any of them. They hadn’t given you much choice, while . . . doing things to you. But then again, you had hardly resisted and had always enjoyed the process. . .

Just last night, after arriving home you had put on the good old Alice costume, just to see how it looked with your new hair. You had kept it, save the too small shoes you had donated to a flea market. . . And you might have masturbated in front of a mirror in that costume, thinking about Jervis. And Eddie. And Jervis again. . .

 _Fuck, maybe I am insane_ , you thought, your mind returning back to Bruce.

How the hell did he know you had been with the Riddler? Had he tracked your phone that long? No, it couldn’t be that. Your phone had been in your apartment. . . So how the hell did he know?

 _He’s not a friend of the Bat, is he?_ You wondered, hearing the doorbell. It was the delivery guy, dropping off your dress. You signed, smiled and sent the man off on his way. As you carried the box to your living room, you couldn’t help but feel slightly giddy. The box was from one of the finest dress shops in Gotham.

And the contents didn’t disappoint. It was a gown of red satin, long, mermaid style and strapless, with high slit at the hem. Revealing, yet tasteful. Made and chosen purely to show you off.

With it, came a note.

_Hope it fits, love._

_—_ _O._

You would find out soon, but first, you would have to do some shopping. Food mostly, since during your time at the Wayne manor, your fridge had been left empty.

Gotham was rather peaceful during afternoon, you noticed, walking towards the local grocery store. Most of the people were either at work or school, leaving the streets free from their usual crowd. They’d fill again soon enough, though. You hoped to do your shopping before that.

“Amber!”

You looked around with the sound of your name being called. And saw Bruce. He was waving at you from the window of his parked car.

You raised your hand in brief greeting, continuing your way. You weren’t on the mood for conversation, especially with Bruce.

Unfortunately the billionaire had different plans, for he left his car, jogging lazily after you.

“Amber, didn’t you see me?”

“I saw you,” you said, giving him a stiff smile. “I need to buy food and I’m in a hurry.” You weren’t actually, since Cobblepot had given you a day off, but Bruce didn’t need to know that.

To think of it, perhaps you should let Eddie know you weren’t coming to the Lounge tonight. You had his number from the text he had sent you, you could return the favor. Something naughty and teasing to toy with him a little. . .

“Too busy to talk with an old friend?” Bruce asked. He gave you a charming grin.

You arched a brow. Since when had he been your friend?

“Is Uncle Alfred with you? I must speak with him about the rental arrangements.”

“He’s in the car and can do your shopping for you. Please, just talk with me, Liz. Let me take you out to dinner.”

You were slightly surprised by Bruce’s tone. He sounded. . . different.

“I can do my own shopping, thank you. I don’t want my Uncle to run errands for me.”

“But you want him to pay your rent?”

You stopped, looking at Bruce. Unless you hadn’t feared he’d sue you, you would’ve slapped him.

“I can pay my own rent now, thank you very much. And I don’t want to hear no shit from a man who tracked my phone. Is that even legal, hm?”

“Amber I. . . I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to talk about. I want to apologize. . .” Bruce rubbed his neck, he looked awkward. “I’m not good at this. I’d be more comfortable over a dinner.”

“Sorry, I’ve got things to do,” you told, when Bruce grabbed your arm.

“Early dinner, right now. I know a restaurant. Please, Liz. I don’t want to make a scene.”

You considered his words, chewing your lip. You didn’t want Bruce as an enemy. He was too rich for it. He couldn’t perhaps buy the Lounge, but he could still buy the building you had your rental apartment in. If Bruce wanted it, he had the means of making your life very, very difficult.

“Is it a very fancy place? I’m not dressed for anything fancier than a regular diner,” you said, glancing down at your casual clothing, a black knee-length skirt, worn with high heeled boots, orange fluffy sweater and a black leather jacket. Your blonde hair was on a loose bun.

“I own the place, you’re fine as the way you are,” Bruce told.

The restaurant turned out to be one of Gotham’s finest, with a VIP space of its own. The mentioned space was on its roof, actually, and seeing it didn’t make you feel any less awkward.

It was a romantic glass roofed garden, with trees and sculptures. Even a damn fountain. The thing that made it all even worse: You two were the only customers. Bruce in his 8000 dollar suit, you in your casual everyday wear.

“See, no need to be nervous. I reserved the whole space for us,” Bruce told, pulling you a chair.

You cursed him in your mind, taking a seat.

“So, what did you want to talk about?” you asked, hoping to make your escape before main course.

“First of all I. . . I wanted to apologize for tracking your phone. I did it after the criminals escaped from Arkham. I was worried about you. You live in a bad neighborhood,” Bruce added.

“The neighborhood is fine. It’s not at downtown, but it’s not infested by hobos or junkies, either,” you stated flatly. It still wasn’t the kind of neighborhood families with kids wanted to move, though. . .

“Still, I apologize. I did it only to keep you safe. I care about you, Liz. . . I’d like you to move back to Wayne manor.”

You frowned, slightly uncomfortable. “Thank you, Bruce. Your apology is accepted. Just stop tracking my phone now, so I don’t have to get a new one. I- I should go. I need to buy food,” you told, rising form you seat.

Bruce mimicked your actions, rising just as quickly. He reached you with two haste steps.

“No, Liz. I _really_ care about you,” he told. And his arms were around you, his lips on yours. He smelled of soap and expensive cologne.

His kiss wasn’t unpleasant, but you pushed him away, harder than you had intended.

“Bruce, what the fuck?! This. . . I. . . I have a boyfriend. This isn’t working out. It just isn’t. I’ve got to go,” you told grabbing your things, hurrying away.

Bruce did not stop you. He remained on the rooftop, standing with hands in his pockets, watching how the waitress brought the appetizers to the table.

You arrived home half an hour later, with two full bags of groceries. And you had stopped to a liquor store on the way. After your encounter with Bruce, you felt like you needed a drink. White Bacardi rum should set your mind at ease. That and chocolate.

As you were loading your groceries into the fridge, something dropped in from your mail slot. It was a flat, small lime green box with a darker green bow. Curious, you went to have a closer look, already guessing who it might be from. —And you were right, since this too, came with a note that was inside the pretty little box.

_Wear them at work, Minx._

_I want you wet and ready for me._

_—_ _?_

The contents of the box. . . at first you had thought it was a piece of jewelry, but as you had a closer look you realized the Riddler had sent you a lime green pearl thong.

Lime green lace and white pearls. . . Cheeky, kinky and definitely a turn on. Also, as expected, slightly humiliating: it would be like going to work without any panties, since there wasn’t much fabric and the crotch was practically open. But these were panties, the kind that would rub your clit while you walked. . .

 _Lucky I have a long dress_ , you thought grinning, hearing your phone beep. It was a text from Bruce.

_We need to finish our conversation._

_I need to finish it._

_Are you home?_

_I’m coming over._

You scowled, shaking your head. You texted him back.

_No. You’re not._

_We talk some other time._

Your doorbell rang just then, making you groan.

You cursed under your breath, heading to the door.

“Bruce I—”

“Sugaaaaaar! How’s it hanging?”

You gasped, nearly dropping your phone. It was the Joker, looking at you with a grin, a pocket knife in hand.

“You!? What are _you_ doing here?” you breathed out, backing into your apartment.

The Joker followed you, his green eyes bright with amusement. He kicked the door shut, letting out a small giggle. “Missed me, toots? Oh I sure missed you. Actually I couldn’t stop thinking about you —after all, you were so kind to me when we met. . .”

“And. . . what do you want?” you asked, trying to remain calm, slowly backing further away.

The Joker was swiftly on you, pressing his knife on your throat. He pushed you deeper into the apartment, all the way to the red couch at your small living room.

He pushed you down on your back, crawling on top of you, pressing the tip of his blade against your cheek. “I just want to thank you, toots,” he told, slipping down your body to lift up your skirt.

“I’d spread those legs and lie still, sweetness. It would be a shame if my hand slipped,” he chuckled, pressing the blade against your ribs.

You held back a whimper as the Joker ripped off your panties. You jerked as his tongue made contract with your clit. And then he lost all carefulness, attacking you with his full mouth, lips and tongue, licking and sucking your sensitive flesh, making you whimper, making you fight the urge to squirm.

“Oh toots! You taste just like cotton candy!” the Joker observed happily, attacking your pussy again. His knife dropped onto the floor, his hands locked around your thighs, brining you closer to his face. He was eating you out enthusiastically, greedily, making your back arch in pleasure as he nibbled at your clit, circling it with his hot, wet tongue.

His tongue sneaked deeper into your slit, exploring your entrance, French kissing your dripping cunt in a way that made you whine out of pleasure. You were getting close, feeling the familiar tightness deep in your lower belly.

And the Joker slipped his hands under your butt, lifting your hips, sucking at your clit hard while gently poking at with the tip of his tongue.

You came, crying out, hands in your hair, hips bucking up for several times, begging more, riding the feeling as your double orgasm hit you, shaking your world like an earth quake.

You panted, sweaty, spent, still aroused. The muscles of your cunt still tightening, attempting to milk the dick that wasn’t there.

The Joker looked at you smugly between your parted legs, giving you a knowing grin. His lipstick was badly smudged, making you wonder just how much of it was smeared on you at the moment.

“Please tell me I was your first, toots. I’d like to think I gave you unforgettable memories.”

Unforgettable memories, yes. First man to go down on you, no.

You answered to his grin, still panting, still trying to take in the situation. “First clown,” you told.

The Joker grinned, dapping his face to a paper towel he snatched from your table, before rising from the couch. He looked around, snatching the Bacardi bottle from your kitchen counter.

“Why look at this, toots! Oh, I like a well prepared woman. . . This’ll set the mood nicely: We’re going to have a wild party in this little apartment of yours!” the clown exclaimed happily. “Where am I going to sleep, by the way?”

“P-party?” you asked, confused. Your knees felt still weak after your orgasm. “Sleep?”

“Why, yes! But seriously, sugar. I need to linger here for a while. Harley and I broke up after I told her about how kindly you treated my mortal wound. . . So, is the couch for me, or do I get to sleep in bed right next to you?”

“Y-you told Harley. . . ?”

“Sure did! She wasn’t happy, so I’d avoid going out for a while if I were you. . . Got anything to eat?”

_Oh. Dear. God._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harley knows, you're doomed.   
> Had a personal crises, I'll try to update more often now.


	13. House guest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joker is staying.   
> He's not the easiest guest.

“You can’t stay here!” you cried out, watching the Joker to raid your fridge. At this point, you were past caring he had just (more or less) oral raped you and your panties were still on the floor, slightly torn.

With him in your apartment, with Harley knowing you had almost given him a blow job. . . _Shit. Fuck. Fucking shit._

“Got nowhere else to go, toots. Do you know how to make an omelet?”

“Can’t you just try the Lounge?!” you cried out, making an impatient gesture with your hand. “Other Arkhamites bunk there; you must be just as welcome!”

“Sorry sugar. Pengy’s got a strict ‘no clowns’ rule. It’s even taped on his office door. The omelet?”

“Yes. I can. Then what about—”

“—Could you make me one? Harley wasn’t much of a chef and I ache for a home cooked meal. Preeetty please, with sugar on top!” the Joker begged with puppy eyes.

You held back a groan, however finding it hard not to smile. The Clown had his way to get to people.

“Will ham cheese filling be okay?” you asked with a sigh, hand at your hip. Hell, you might just as well make the omelet big enough for two. You hadn’t eaten since morning and those two biscuits you had had with coffee hardly counted as a meal.

“You know just how to get into a man’s heart,” the Joker exclaimed with sweet tone and theatrical hand gestures.

You shook your head, lifting his pocketknife on your coffee table before making your way past him to the stove. He handed you the eggs with a small grin.

“So, what’s with the ‘no clowns’ rule? Did you do something?”

“Don’t I always,” the clown grinned, starting to go through your kitchen cabinets. He found the cheetos, of course. He parked his ass on the couch, lifting his feet up. “So, toots, you’re familiar with the Lounge?”

“I work there,” you told truthfully while chopping ham and cheese slices to go into the omelet.

_I should probably let Eddie know I won’t be there tonight. . . Shit. I wonder if I should tell him Joker is here or keep shut about it. . ._

“You clean up the Lounge?” the clown chuckled, shaking his head. “My condolences, dear. Cobblepot must enjoy having a French maid as an eye food. Hah! What a pleasure you must be for Pengy; he can eat you with his eyes while stuffing his mouth!”

“I’m not a French maid and I do not clean up the Lounge. I’m Cobblepot’s. . . personal. . . secretary.”

The Joker looked at you, brows raised, his mouth full of cheetos. “You let Pengy bone you?!” he hooted, going into a fit of maniacal giggles. Some of the cheetos flew to the floor from his mouth.

“No. I most certainly do no. And please clean up after yourself.”

“Oh this is _hilarious_! Going from billionaire to birds, HA!”

You sighed, deciding not to reply. You had a feeling this was going to be hell of a long night. . . _if_ , Joker was going to stay. You hoped he wouldn’t.

“You said you have _nowhere_ else to go. Don’t you have a hideout or something? Couldn’t you rent a room? Bunk at a friend’s?” you questioned carefully. The omelet was almost ready.

“Harley burned down my base when we broke up. Oh, that firecracker’s crazier than me at times. Besides, you’re my friend, aren’t you, toots? After all, you were _very_ friendly last time I saw you.”

_Um, yeah. You pointed a gun at my temple. It tends to make me very friendly. . ._

“I suppose,” you sighed, deciding it would be for the best, if you stayed on the clown’s good side.

“Here you are, omelet à la Liz,” you said, handing him a plate with a fork.

You snorted in your mind. _The company of the criminals has turned me from Amber to Liz. . . Oh for fuck’s sake. Soon I’ll join them, Liz being my alternative personality. . ._

The clown wolfed down his meal in the manner of seconds. “Oh. My. God: That was good! Sugar, you never told me you’re chef as well!” he grinned, eyeing your half of the omelet.

You sighed again, split it in two and slid the other half on his plate. You’d do with one quarter plus left over cheetos. The clown was obviously hungry.

“When was the last time you ate?” you asked, half jokingly, digging into your remaining omelet.

“You know, I cannot remember,” the clown replied.

***

“I think I screwed up, Alfred.”

The butler cocked his brow, placing the tray on the library’s table. It was unlike Master Bruce to admit such things. Something must have gone horribly wrong, he had been so quiet during the drive back to the Manor.

“Oh, and how so, sir?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

That sounded even worse.

“I take it your conversation with Liz didn’t go as well as you hoped?”

“No, it did not,” Bruce replied.

Alfred took the hint from his tone and took the liberty to pour Bruce some cognac. He looked grateful, while he took the glass.

“Might I inquire what she said, sir? Anything about her current. . . situation?”

“She said she’s capable of paying her own rent now, so we can assume she still works at the Lounge. I’m not sure if she wants to speak with me again.”

“I am certain she’ll come around. It is not like Liz to stay angry for long,” Alfred told calmingly. Yet, he wished she would look for another job; preferably move back to the Manor, till Gotham was safer again.

“I’m not sure she’ll let this slide, Alfred. I. . . did something. Something I shouldn’t have.”

Alfred knew better than to ask. He had a hunch, though. If Liz reminded Master Bruce of Miss Kyle, it was possible Bruce had developed feelings for the girl. He had been fond of her to beguine with, so it had only been the matter of time.

Alfred didn’t disapprove. Bruce was a honorable man. He could make Liz happy, if only he would stop his nightly crusades around Gotham. Some cities, he feared, were beyond redemption, such as some people were.

“I assume you will not try to speak with her again anytime soon, sir?”

Bruce shook his head, spinning the drink in his glass. “No. I think she needs time. I cannot approach her as Batman and I need to wait till I can approach her as myself.”

“But you wish to get her off the Lounge.”

“Yes. And I want her away from the city. It isn’t safe. The criminals are too interested in her.”

“Perhaps Master Dick could be of help, sir? I am sure he would leave Blüdhaven for the weekend, if you only asked.”

“Dick? I suppose he could approach Liz as Nightwing. . . That’s a good idea, Alfred. . .” 

***

The cheetos were gone, as was a packet of Oreos, along with some ice-cream and chocolate. The rum bottle was half empty and it had been a large bottle. It was 8:26pm.

You were tipsy, probably more so than the Joker. —And he had been doing most of the drinking.

“A-and he says: What do you think I am? Crazy? You’d turn it off when I was half way across!”

You hooted with laughter, picking up your phone as it beeped to inform of an arrived message. It was from Eddie.

_Code for my room: 4165_

_Have you tried on my gift yet, Minx?_

_Does it feel as good as my fingers?_

_—_ _?_

You blushed slightly, pulling further from the Joker to hide your phone. You typed back a quick response, just now remembering you had forgotten to tell Eddie it was your night off.

_Haven’t had the chance._

_Been a busy day._

_Tonight’s my night off. . ._

And the little drunken devil on your shoulder told it was the perfect time to tease him a little. Give him a small taste of his own medicine. Make him frustrated. . . It made you wonder whether he’d be rough, when you’d finally meet.

_Tonight’s my night off_

_—_ _or maybe I’m playing hard to get._

_What’s panting hard and begging for_

_release?_

He texted his response rather quickly.

_The answer is you, my dear Minx,_

_when you walk up the stairs_

_of the Lounge wearing your new thong._

_And you again, when I’ll_

_have you in my room. . ._

_I’ll see you tomorrow night._

_PS: when you feel the pearls of my gift_

_fondle you, please imagine it’s my tongue._

You flushed, suddenly very horny. You should have known you weren’t going to beat the Riddle-man in his own game. Not while you were drunk, at least.

“Oh, I know that smile,” the Joker remarked, taking a sip from the bottle. “Got someone sexting you, toots?”

“Perhaps,” you replied, avoiding. Apparently whole Gotham was interested in your personal life.

“Oswald?” the clown asked, quirking a green brow.

You snorted, taking the bottle from him to have a sip. “No. He’s my boss.”

“Then who is it, toots? Com’on, tell me. You’re killing me with this suspense!”

“Riddler!” you told, rolling your eyes. You raised your hands in the air, letting them drop limb on your lap.

Joker looked at you in silence for a while, till he burst into laughter.

“Eddie? You’re banging Eddie?! Well I can’t believe this! Who knew the nerd even had a dick?!”

“I do and he does. Besides what’s there not to believe? You were the match maker; we hit it off while I was his hostage. —I’m going to hit the shower,” you told, rising, taking your phone with you. You didn’t want to risk the clown making prank calls to everyone on your list.

_I should probably give the bedroom to him_ , you thought, starting to undress. _He’s obviously staying, so I don’t have any options. Uncle Alfred has a spare key and with Bruce acting the way he does. . . I cannot risk them coming in and seeing the clown on the couch. In the bedroom he’s at least somewhat hidden._

You had just stepped into the shower when Joker wandered in your bathroom, naked.

“Jesus fucking hell!”

“Whoa, calm down, toots! Or is mine that much bigger than Eddie’s?” the clown asked, grinning.

You didn’t know. You hadn’t seen Eddie’s dick yet. Joker was good sized, though. Long and pale. Not very girthy, but impressive nevertheless. He didn’t have any pubic hair; he had shaved it off.

It was kind of disappointing —you had always wondered whether he was green downstairs.

His gunshot wound had healed well, you noticed. The stitched were gone as well. 

“What do you think you’re doing?” you asked, eyes wide, as the clown stepped into the shower. The small space wasn’t meant for two. On the other hand a small part of you wanted to touch him, slide your hands on his body to explore his pale skin. The many scars, the outline of his ribs, his long cock and pale balls. . .

“I thought I’d shower as well, sugar. You don’t want me all dirty in your clean sheets, do you?”

You supposed you didn’t. And considering how greasy his hair looked, he probably needed the shower very badly.

“And you couldn’t wait your turn?” you asked, slightly hesitant. At least he didn’t have any weapons with him, this time.

“I was hoping you’d wash my back,” the clown grinned, taking one of your shampoos off the shelf: It was he coconut smelling one. He squeezed a generous amount right in his hair. “Oh and toots,” he added while turning his back at you, “I came to check what you’re doing with that phone of yours. You won’t let anyone know I’m here with you, will you?”

You took the hint. _Another hostage situation? Marvelous. . ._

“I took the phone so _you_ wouldn’t make any prank calls. Besides, who am I going to tell? My uncle? Bruce? The police wouldn’t probably even believe me. . . ” you muttered, taking out the sponge to wash his back. It would be his sponge after this. . .

“Just making sure you understand the terms of our agreement, toots,” the clown murmured. There was a touch of. . . well there was something in his voice. His tone. Something slightly different.

He leaned against the wall, letting you wash him. He was thin, so pale. You could hardly tell the difference between the foam and his skin.

“Yes,” you told casually. _I’ll let him stay here, hidden_ _—_ _and he won’t kill me._

The whole situation was odd. Completely bizarre. You were naked in a shower with the man who had broken into your apartment and pulled a gun at you. He was a wanted criminal, a homicidal maniac and perhaps Gotham’s most wanted and definitely most dangerous. —Yet you were at ease. Almost comfortable. Just slightly aroused. You could tell he was getting hard.

“Tell me, toots,” the Joker whispered hoarsely, glancing at you over his shoulder, “does your offer from our first night together still stand?”

Your offer? To blow him? You couldn’t say you weren’t slightly tempted, but considering your involvement with Eddie. . . No. You wouldn’t do it. You weren’t doing all the criminals at once.

“I’ve got a boyfriend,” you told, repeating the same lie you had told Bruce. You were wet, though. Aching, in the matter of fact.

_Shit. Do I need to finger myself later tonight to be able to sleep?_

“Eddie? It’s that serious, eh? My loss I’m sure, for not holding you hostage myself, back then.”

You only settled to smile, starting to wash your own hair. In a way, you were very grateful you had been Eddie’s hostage, instead of Joker’s.

The clown watched you, scanning you body with his intense green eyes, but he did not utter a word.

You were chancing the sheets on your bed when he walked out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, his hair dripping wet. He looked odd, without the red lipstick smile. Almost. . . normal. Not any less amused, though.

“Why don’t we share, toots? It would be less suspicious, than one of us sleeping on the couch? How’d you explain the pillows and blankets at Uncle Al, or Brucie dearest, should they come busting in?”

“I don’t have to explain anything. I have a chain for that; people can’t just come busting in.”

Joker raised his brows.

“I probably forgot to lock it during your first visit,” you defended with half hearted eye roll. 

“Not smart, toots. This is Gotham after all.”

“I suppose not,” you muttered, wondering. If someone did knock on your door or attempted to use a key to get in, could you grab your things from the couch fast enough? Would it be suspicious if you took your time before opening the door?

You could always make up a lie. . .

_Don’t be a stupid cunt_ , you told yourself. _Do NOT make up excuses to sleep next to the clown!_ _We have all ingredients for a disaster here, there’s no need to start making a soup out of them._

“The bed’s yours. I’ll take the couch,” you told, making a gesture towards the bed with your hand.

The Joker grinned at you, dropping his towel. “Hope it’s okay if I sleep naked. . .”


	14. Playing your role

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joker is a horny little clown prince of crime.  
> Oswald is a cruel and cunning man.  
> Eddie *tsk, tsk* We all know how Eddie can be at times. . .

“Gooood morning, toots!”

You flinched awake, trying to focus your gaze. The clown goggled at you at the end of the couch, fingers laced under his chin. He had borrowed your lipstick; it appeared, to renew his signature smile.

“What time is it?” you asked groggily, pulling the blanket higher. Your neck was aching from the poor position you had slept in.

“About 9:30,” Joker murmured, for your surprise crawling on top of you. He was completely naked and showing off a very intense case of morning glory.

His weight on you felt comfortable, arousing. His knee landed between your legs, pressing your crotch through the blanket. He leaned in, close, closer, his pale forehead nearly touching yours.

“Don’t tell me you’re not tempted, toots,” he murmured silently with a knowing grin. “I could show you all kinds of circus tricks. . .”

You believed him. Oh God you did. But getting intimately involved with the Joker was not wise, for several reasons.

“I am not that brave,” you whispered, bending your knees slightly as the clown’s nose touched yours. His knee felt good against you. The pressure was just right. You fought the urge to rock your hips against him.

“Hm?” was all he said. It was an inquiring sound. Amused sound.

“H-Harley,” you stuttered, your eyelashes fluttering as the clown shifted, offering you a selection of new kinds of sensations with his knee. “She already has a reason to kill me. I-I don’t want to provoke her further.”

“Harley!” the Joker cried suddenly, rising with a grin. “Why, I already forgot all about her! Of course we wouldn’t wish to give her any more reasons to smash your head in and feed you to the piranhas. . . But I won’t tell, if you won’t, toots. . .”

***

“Good news, Master Bruce. Master Dick has replied to your message and tells he’s more than happy to come and have a talk with little Liz.”

Bruce glanced at his butler along his nose. “Little Liz?”

“Yes, sir. Those were his words, though I must admit my reaction was exactly the same. Liz may have been little since Master Dick last saw her, but I would advise him to renew his attitude, before trying to speak with her.”

“He should. When was the last time they’ve seen each other?” Bruce asked, frowning.

“They met briefly when Master Dick still lived at the manor, sir. I believe Liz was at her early teens back then. They were very fond of each other, if I remember correctly.”

“I see,” Bruce muttered thoughtfully. Dick and Liz were about of age, Dick being briefly older.

“I think Master Dick could also approach Liz as himself. She might listen to reason, if it came from someone she knows and likes. An old friend, in this case.”

“I think Dick should approach her purely as Nightwing,” Bruce told, perhaps slightly harsher than he had intended.

He did not see the small frown on the butler’s face.

***

“Do you remember everything I told you?” you asked, checking yourself from the mirror. It was 8:20pm already. You were going to be late soon.

“Huh? Did you say something?” the Joker asked, bored. He was watching TV, dressed only in his black boxer shorts: the ones you had washed for him last night, along with the rest of his clothing. Obviously he hadn’t bothered to put on the rest of his colorful attire, but it was still improvement compared to the brief nudist phase he had demonstrated.

“Seriously!?” you cried out spreading your arms.

The clown looked at you over his shoulder, brooding. He had been brooding since morning, ever since you had rejected his advances. “I remember, I remember: Curtains closed, TV on silent or mute, I can raid the fridge when I get hungry. I’ll keep the chain locked and will not let anyone in. Got it, toots. No need to be so uptight.”

“Good, I’ll see you in the morning,” you told, shrugging slightly, heading to the door.

_Life with a brooding clown. . . What the fuck have I done to deserve this? I must be crazy to leave him alone in my apartment. I wonder if I’ll even have an apartment to return to, if he gets frustrated enough. . ._

The taxi waited for you at the front of your building. The drive to the Lounge wasn’t a long one, but would still swallow a part of your stretched budget. —Stretched mainly because you were feeding the clown. But, you saw using a taxi as a better option, than risk running into Harley in Gotham’s rainy night.

You arrived at the Lounge a little later than you had anticipated, hurrying up the steps. You had to admit; Ed had been right in his text. You were panting slightly, stopping briefly at the top of the stairs to catch your breath. The pearls rubbed your sensitive spot, making your belly feel hot and heavy.

Tracey waited for you at the staffs quarters, looking at you along her nose.

“Your earrings look cheap,” was the first thing she said.

“They’re the best I have,” you told, quickly checking yourself from the mirror. You were on time, mainly because you had jogged up the stairs, nearly getting off from Eddie’s gift. Your cheeks were pink, your eyes dark and almost seductive. The red strapless dress looked good on you.

“Cobblepot’s in his office. I’d hurry if I were you,” Tracey told sourly. “Third door on the left.”

You obeyed, knocking on the door. There was no answer, but you slipped in nevertheless. Cobblepot wasn’t in, but this was definitely his office. It was fancy. A large wooden desk, almost throne-like chair. . . Some bookshelves and a bar cabinet. The lighting was very intimate, dim and warm.

“There you are, my dear,” a familiar voice spoke from behind you.

You turned, smiling politely. “Mr. Cobblepot.”

He was wearing a dark suit, with purple embroidered waistcoat and a forest green necktie. His tiepin looked costly enough to cover a month’s rent for you.

“You look lovely tonight,” he told, observing you from head to toe. His eyes were dark, bright.

You smiled awkwardly at him. “Thank you, Mr. Cobblepot. As you can see, the dress fits.”

The red satin hugged your body tightly, barely concealing what you were wearing underneath.

“Oswald, love. Call me Oswald,” the Penguin murmured, making his way to you. There was small limp at his step. He took your hand, planting a soft warm kiss on your knuckles. Everything about Oswald was soft and warm. Except for his smile, perhaps. No matter the circumstances, there was a small touch of cruelty in it.

“Oswald,” you smiled, taking a half step back, “you wanted me early to discuss things?”

He didn’t let go of your hand. “Yes, love. I want you to play a role tonight. Do you think you’re up for it?”

“What kind of role?”

“A role of a bimbo,” Oswald told, cocking his head to the side. “Can you do it?”

“That depends on what you wish me to do,” you answered cautiously. There was a sharp scent of cologne around him. It was a strange but intoxicating mix of whiskey, blackberries and something else. Something very nice —And expensive. Because of Bruce, you knew what expensive smelled like.

“I want you to pretend we’ve just met, love. You’re very taken by me, you want to get close. I will play along. We pretend I get you drunk, you smile, you giggle and look pretty. You peek at the other people’s cards, while walking between the bar and my lap. You whisper the knowledge sweetly in my ear. . .”

“Could I just blink the numbers at you,” you interrupted, uncertain whether you liked Oswald’s plan. “Like four blinks means four and if I touch my hair it means hearts?”

“My sweet,” Oswald spoke, “The players will look at you, they’ll notice such a pattern. Drunken whispers are better, less suspicious. —You’ll do as I say. Otherwise the players will notice you’re peeking and we don’t want that, do we?”

You realized you most certainly didn’t want that, as you saw the other players half an hour later. All were men, all wore expensive suits. They were criminals, for sure. Perhaps even Mafia.

You were sitting next to Oswald on the couch as they arrived, smiling and laughing, just as he had wanted. It was easier than you had though, actually. Oswald had some entertaining stories to tell, from the days before the Lounge.

“Gentlemen,” Oswald greeted heartily, rising, “welcome to the Iceberg Lounge!”

You watched him shake hands with the four men. You didn’t participate, just sat still and smiling, twirling a loose lock around your finger.

“Oh, and this is Amber, my new friend,” Oswald told, making a gesture towards you. “I trust you’re not uncomfortable about her presence?”

You gave the men a flirty smile. “Hi.”

“So, let us start the game, shall we?” Oswald smiled brightly. “Amber dear, why don’t you serve us drinks.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Cobblepot,” you purred, making sure to land your hand on his shoulder and drag it across his chest as you passed him by on your way towards the bar.

He looked at you as you touched him. You knew the look. It was longing —and lust.

The poker game started out smoothly, much as Cobblepot had wanted. You served drinks, giggled, sat at Cobblepot’s side —and drank water from a martini glass. 

“You’re getting drunk, my sweet,” Oswald then spoke, smirking, while offering you a sip from the edge of his own glass.

That was your cue. You laughed, throwing your head back. You sneaked an arm around his shoulder. “Oh, you might be right, Oswald! But what does is matter, we’re all friends here. Do you mind me, gentlemen?”

The men shook their heads, some serious, the others grinning.

“See, Oswald, they don’t mind,” you purred, rising. “Why don’t we all have a little more,” you giggled with a slight slur, making your way towards the bar. You had drunk three glasses of water; it was a sufficient amount to pretend you were good and wasted.

As you sat back down, you faked a small stumble, landing on Oswald’s lap while spilling some of your ‘martini’ on the floor.

“Oops!”

“Don’t worry about it, love. Why don’t you stay there for a while, after all, you’ve got the most comfortable seat in the house,” he told, sneaking his hand around your waist, pulling you to sit higher on his thigh.

His hand fondled the small of your back, till he stilled, curious.

Could it be because you had shifted? Had he. . . had he felt the pearls against his thigh?

Whichever the case, not all of Oswald was that soft anymore. You could feel it, his growing erection, pressing against the back of your thigh. And he felt big.

It made you wonder just how girthy he was, considering there was just a little bit of extra on his waist.

Oswald continued to rub your back casually, till his fingers found the edge of the thong again, and he pinched the fabric between his fingers, yanking, just a little.

You gasped, though you weren’t quite sure whether it was a gasp of shock or pleasure. Your cheeks must have been redder than the upholstery on the chairs.

“Oswald. . .” you whispered, squeezing his shoulder slightly. Your eyes were dark, your gaze hazed by your arousal.

The Penguin did not mind, but continued his sadistic torture instead. His warm hand dropped down to fondle your backside. He shifted the thongs with his thumb ever so slightly, making the pearls rub against your clit.

You gasped again, crossing your legs. But it only made things worse, since Oswald now had access to put his hand under your ass.

“Oswald. . . Oswald please,” you whispered, fighting a moan. Your face was resting against the nape of his neck, your whole body was tensed, fighting against your building pleasure.

“Yes, dear? What is it?” Oswald murmured with a small smile.

You leaned in, realizing this was your last and only chance to tell him about the cards. You were rocking your hips ever so lightly.

“The middle one’s the only one with good hand. Two pairs: queens and f-fours!”

Your body jerked and you whimpered against Oswald’s neck, panting. Oswald also, was breathing slightly faster, looking at you with a . . . certain expression on his face. His eyes were darker than polished onyx, pupils dilated in arousal. . .

“Why. . . that is an interesting idea, love,” he murmured, face inches away from yours.

You couldn’t believe he had just forced you to cum, on his thigh, in front of everyone.

“Should we interrupt the game?” one of the men asked, grinning.

“I say we finish it quickly,” Oswald told, hitting his royal flush to the table.

\--

You sat awkwardly at the couch, watching Oswald say his goodbyes to the grumpy men, who were being escorted out by his security. And he even had the nerve to wish them welcome again.

“That went very well, love,” he told you happily, limping his way back to the couch.

You nodded stiffly, fixing your hair. You were more embarrassed than ever in your life.

“I must say,” Oswald murmured in a low voice, taking a seat right next to you, “I admire how seriously you take your work. —And don’t mind making it fun as well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cobblepot,” you replied mechanically. Your clit was still hard and burning.

Oh boy, Eddie would have some fun time, tonight. To think about it, perhaps you could ask whether you could stay with him for a couple of nights, to avoid the clown. . .

Nothing was as a creepy, as a brooding clown. . .

“Oswald, darling. How many times must I ask you to call me Oswald.”

“At least once more, Mr. Cobblepot.”

“You’ll come around sooner or later, I’m sure,” Oswald smiled, starting to count his money. His words made you wonder whether you had been a bit too good, while playing your role. All that touching and laughing. . . Oswald wasn’t unpleasant in any way, but dating your boss was a no-no. And you didn’t wish to give him any wrong impressions.

“Well,” you smiled politely, “You won big money tonight, 13 000 thousand and my role has been played. Shall we call it a night?”

“Stay for a while, love. I ordered us some sushi, tell me about yourself. Pour yourself a drink, get me one as well.”

Reluctantly, you did as you were bid. But then again, it was only 1:30. You still had work time left.

“There isn’t much to tell, I am afraid,” you told, placing his glass on the table. “I live in a small apartment and work here. After work I am going to see my boyfriend,” you told, hoping that would be clear enough message to tell Cobblepot you weren’t interested. 

“That sounds wonderful, love,” he replied, making you wonder if he had actually even listened to your words.

The sushi arrived soon enough, served fancily on fancy plates, just as you had expected.

“Well, love. Let us celebrate a little,” Oswald spoke, holding out a sushi roll before your face.

You knew he wanted you to take a bite, and so you did, even though you weren’t that into in eating raw fish. The salmon rice filling was surprisingly good and so you hummed approvingly.

“Mr. Cobblepot?”

“Hmm?”

“What happens if you won’t win, for one reason or another?” you asked, suddenly remembering the fallen tables and broken glass from the night you had first laid eyes on the Penguin.

“Well my little dove,” Oswald smiled warmly, reaching in to clean up the corner of your mouth with his thumb. “I am sure you’ll be there to comfort me, in one way or the other. . .”

***

You left the VIP-zone about half an hour later, with 260 dollars in your purse. It was your two percent from Oswald’s winnings. It was less than you had made in tips, but your general salary was higher than it had been while serving at the salon. It appeared making money at the Lounge was rather easy, as long as Oswald would win and not take too much interest in you.

You fixed your appearance at Eddie’s door, feeling excited. The Riddle-man had never seen you in an evening gown before.

You knocked and waited.

As there was no answer, you tapped in the code.

The room was dark and empty, to your surprise. And for a moment, you thought this was yet another ploy to humiliate you more, till you noticed the newspaper on the bed. It had been folded to show page four.

It showed a large picture of you and Bruce, kissing on the rooftop of the restaurant. Next to it was a long story written by Jack Ryder, speculating the billionaire’s secret romance with his butler’s niece.

You cursed the reporter in your mind, selecting Eddie’s number from your phone. The neon light of the opposite building blinked blue, giving the room a cold tone while shining in from the windows.

You waited and waited, till you heard an automated female voice: _“We’re sorry; you have reached a number that has been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel . . .”_

You shut your phone.

The Riddler’s message couldn’t have been any clearer.

You left the room in thoughtful silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horrible, horrible twists. . .  
> I am very interested to see who gets to stick it in first. . .
> 
> And oh! My friend is giving away her book for free, so people wouldn't get bored because of the covid. Please check it out. 
> 
> https://www.amazon.com/TER-DREGOS-Defiers-Mages-Mistwall-ebook/dp/B07XTFR8QK/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=ter+dregos&qid=1568882981&s=gateway&sr=8-1


	15. Circus tricks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're sad because Eddie has disappeared.   
> Oswald is being very gentlemanly.   
> But sometimes fun thing cum with clowns. . .

“Love? You came back?”

You looked at Oswald, taking in his surprised but pleased face. He was still counting the money he had won.

“Yes. Do you know where Eddie is?”

“Eddie?”

“Riddler,” you told, trying not to sound impatient.

_Gee, how many Eddies does he have here?_

“Love, I don’t know what you’re. . .”

“Please, Oswald. He was the one I was going to see. I know him. —And I’ve met the rest of the gang, Crane, Hatter. . . I know they can bunk here from time to time.”

“You went so see. . . Eddie?”

“Yes,” you nodded, just now remembering you had told him you would go to see your boyfriend.

“We’ve been . . . getting to know each other, for a while,” you added awkwardly, shifting your weight from one foot to the other. You had taken off the thong and stored them in your purse.

The look in the Penguin’s eyes softened. His mouth curved into a soft smile. “Eddie left early this morning, soon after reading the paper. He was very cranky.”

“Do you know where he is? How can I reach him?”

Oswald chuckled softly. “I’m afraid Eddie comes and goes as he pleases. Have you tried to call him?”

“His number no longer works.”

“Then he doesn’t wish to be found. It’s not the first time Eddie has ditched his phone. Most of our ‘friends’ do so occasionally, so they cannot be tracked. I am sure he will contact you sooner or later.”

You doubted it, and your sad mood must have showed outwards too, thus Oswald frowned. “Is everything all right, love? You look sad. Do you need anything?”

You shook your head, attempting a smile. “No. Thank you, Mr. Cobblepot. I think I shall head home now. If you hear from Eddie, please tell him Ryder invented the stuff. And the pic. . . it wasn’t as it seems.”

“I’ll tell him, love. Are you sure you don’t need anything? A drink? Ride home? Some company?”

_He’s asking me to stay?_

“A ride home would be nice, if it’s not too much trouble,” you replied carefully, assuming Cobblepot wouldn’t be driving himself. If he would, though. . . Well, then things could get really awkward.

“I’ll tell my driver to take you,” the Penguin smiled warmly.

You climbed the steps to your apartment twenty minutes later, tired, beaten and on sour mood. It was almost morning. The sun would come up just in a couple of hours.

You knocked rhythmically on your door, just as you had told Joker you would, and waited.

He came to open soon enough, rattling the chain open before letting you in. He was still sour, it seemed.

“What took you so long?” you asked suspiciously, scanning your apartment. It appeared normal enough. Slightly messy, but normal. At least he hadn’t been building bombs while you were gone.

“I fell asleep,” the clown told, making his way back to the cough. The TV was still on; the commercial break featured an upcoming horror movie marathon. Halloween would be just within two weeks. The people would soon start to put up décor.

You kicked your heels off, falling to the couch. Joker glanced at you from the corner of his eye, but said nothing.

“How was your night?” you asked after the uncomfortable silence had lasted for a while.

“Quiet. Tell the truth, I didn’t expect you home this soon.”

Tell the truth, you hadn’t expected to be home this soon. If things had gone your way, you would have been getting fucked at the Lounge.

_Fucking Ryder. . . And fuck Bruce, too. . ._

You snatched the almost empty Bacardi bottle from the table, emptying it with one long gulp. Being tired as you were, the booze made the clown look rather attractive. —Especially, when you still were very frustrated.

“Want some cotton candy for breakfast?” you asked, slowly sliding to lie on your back, peeking at the Joker between your open legs.

He glanced at you with raised brows, almost smiling. “Want me to lick off Eddie’s mess, do you, toots? Kinky and tempting, but no.”

“Eddie wasn’t there,” you murmured, reaching to pull down the zipper of your dress.

And that, got the clown going.

“He stood you up, did he?” the Joker cooed, leaning closer. “How rude of Eddie. . . But that’s his loss. . .”

He crawled on top of you, easing off your dress. You had no bra or panties.

“Naughty, naughty, naughty,” the clown giggled, kissing down your neck. He took a nipple in his mouth, while squeezing your other breast. He toyed with your nipple, circling it, squeezing it hard between his fingers.

“Will you show me those circus tricks?” you moaned, sinking your fingers into his green hair. You could feel him, getting hard. His pale skin felt warm against yours.

“Circus tricks, magic trick, oh! I’ll show you them all, toots. Just. You. Wait,” the Joker purred, licking his way down your belly.

His tongue landed on your clit, wet and warm, poking you gently, circling your tiny hardened bud.

“First trick, toots: I’ll make you cum —and I’ll make you forget you’re a psychotic little maniac. . .”

“I-I am n-not a psychotic little mani—Oh! Oh god!” Your words were interrupted as your orgasm hit you, making your neck arch and you hips to rise from the couch, giving Joker a better access to prolong your pleasure with a couple of long sure licks over your wet slit.

“See, toots? You forgot!” the clown sniggered, peering at you with a grin. His lipstick smile was a red mess on his face.

You laughed shortly as an answer, catching your breath.

“And now, for the grand finale, the main show of our cirque du giggles!” the clown declared, pulling his boxers down, releasing his erection.

“Use this,” you breathed, reaching for your purse, pulling out a condom.

“No entry with bare, hm?” Joker asked, cocking his head.

It would have been fine. You had a coil. But since Joker had been with Harley. . . well, better safe than sorry with a disease.

“Nope,” you told, playfully shaking your head.

“Fine,” the clown murmured, tearing open the foil. It didn’t take long for him to get the rubber on and position himself between your legs.

“Now toots, think of happy things; popcorn and jongleurs,” he told with a raspy voice, pushing himself inside you.

You gasped softly, grabbing his shoulders. He filled you up nicely and he got deep.

The Joker grunted as well, getting used to you, to feel of your tight walls around him.

“Oh toots. . . you’re in for a wild ride tonight,” he sniggered, throwing your leg over his shoulder. The, he began to move.

His thrusts were fitful, not slow but not very fast. They were aggressive, without any consistent rhythm. And it felt wonderful.

“Keep doing that. . . keep doing that J,” you murmured, closing your eyes, brining your hands up to your hair. The back of your leg was burning; the feeling in your lower belly was getting hot and tight.

“Talk dirty to me, toots. . .”

“Fuck me, you clown,” you hissed, grabbing a handful of his hair. “Fuck me like you’d fuck a dirty slut after your first day out of Arkham!”

Joker groaned at your words, his hips jerking.

“More. . . make it filthy!”

“Fuck me like you’d fuck me on a ferris wheel before Batman! Stick. That. Pale. Big. Clown. Cock. In!” you hissed in his ear. And he was finished: With a loud high-pitched moan and a shudder.

He collapsed on top of you with a small giggle, panting heavily.

“Got to say, toots,” he murmured while pulling out, “I do love your imagination. . .”

You woke up around noon, for your surprise, to find the apartment empty. The Joker had snuck out quietly and he had left you a note on the kitchen table.

_THANKS FOR LETTING ME STAY, TOOTS!_

_LOVED THE ‘BREAKFAST’._

_HERE’S SOMETHING FOR RENT._

_PS: I BORROWED YOUR LIPSTICK AND_

_USED YOUR TOOTHBRUSH_

_HOPE YOU WON’T MIND =)_

_PPS: I WON’T TELL HARLEY IF YOU WON’T_

On the table next to the note was a neat pile of money. 800 dollars in total.

It appeared the clown would have had the money to go somewhere else, he just hadn’t. —That or he had left you apartment, recently robbed someone and come back to leave the money before leaving again.

 _Perhaps he was just lonely_ , you thought, starting to make yourself coffee as the phone beeped.

It was a text from. . . Oswald?

_Tonight at 8:30, Love._

_My office._

_I have a new dress for you._

_-Oz_


	16. Losers be winners?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald likes you -and isn't shy to show it.

Sleeping with the clown had been a huge mistake, you thought, while speeding up your steps, making your way through the rain and towards the Lounge. The black asphalt looked shiny from underneath your umbrella. The heels of your boots splashed water with each step.

It had been stupid, unnecessary and to be completely honest, you weren’t sure if the sex had even been all that great.

 _It was the alcohol that made him so attractive_ , you told yourself. Again. _It was drunken sex, nothing more_ _. . ._

Yet, you knew you had slept with the clown partly because of Ed. Because of he had been unavailable. Vanished. Disappeared. Leaving you no means to contact him. . . to explain how things actually were. . .

You sighed deeply, stopping at traffic light. You had begun to regret for not calling a taxi.

 _Perhaps Oswald was right and Eddie just ditched his phone,_ you thought, watching the cars go by. _He’ll contact me once he’s safe. Perhaps he even left the Lounge because the Bat was on him. . . Now you’re just lying to yourself. He left because he saw the stupid article, with the horrible, totally out of context picture. He hurt his ego again. . ._

It made you wonder, though: what would happen, if you and Ed ever happened to cross paths again?

You left your umbrella at staff’s quarters, making your way to Oswald’s office. He waited for you inside, seated behind his desk. He was reading through some papers, occasionally making markings with a gold tipped pen.

 _So old fashioned. . . Yet oddly charming and fitting._ You smiled a little. Eddie would have used a laptop.

“Mr. Cobblepot.”

“Amber, come in, love,” he greeted with a warm smile. You didn’t ask how he had gotten your first name, or why he chose to use it, even after you had introduced yourself as Liz to beguine with. The use of your first name made you to think of Bruce.

 _I should blacken his eye the next time I see him_ , you cursed in your mind, walking towards the desk.

“Another poker game tonight?” you inquired politely.

“Yes. Your new dress is over there,” Cobblepot told, waving his hand towards a box at the couch.

Curious, you peeked in it, pulling out a long black lace gown. Open front, even more open back. Definitely more expensive and dramatic and mature than the first dress. . .

“Please, do try it on, dear. And if you do well tonight, I was also thinking about giving you a small raise. Your cut would be five percent,” Oswald told, placing his papers on the desk to look at you. His monocle took reflection from the warm shaded table lamp, concealing his right eye.

“The dress is very lovely —and five percent sounds even better,” you told with a smile, modeling the dress before your body.

“I thought you’d be pleased, my dear. Please, try it on. Let me see if it fits.”

You glanced around, then back at Oswald. He was staring at you, his eyes dark and intense.

_Try it on? Here? In front of him? Hell no. . ._

This, could escalate quickly. This was even worse than sleeping with the clown. This could get you into very serious trouble. You knew Cobblepot. . . liked you. That he used you to gain more money, status. . . perhaps even admiration. But if he took real interest in you —Romantic interest, things would go downhill pretty quickly.

Last night with the thong. . . you had kind of hoped he had just done it for fun, for the kicks —to show off to the other guys. . . But no. You weren’t getting involved with your boss like that. If you did, it would be pretty much forever —or at least as long as you wanted to keep your job.

“Where can I. . . ?”

Oswald seemed to snap out of his trance, giving you a most charming smile. He was all smiles. All the time.

“The bathroom’s over there,” he told, nodding towards a side door.

The dress fit on perfectly, once you removed your bra. It was too open for them. And once you added the black heels you had brought in your bag, the final result was rather impressive.

“How does it fit, love? Can I see?” Oswald’s voice called from the office.

“This is how it looks,” you told, walking out of the large and rather kingly bathroom, noticing Oswald was waiting for you with a small wooden box in his hands.

“Earrings, to go with it,” he told, chuckling, holding out his hand for you.

You took the invitation, perhaps against better caution, stepping closer. And Oswald was pleased, you could tell.

“And here I thought you couldn’t look any lovelier,” he murmured, opening the tiny box to show you golden drop shaped earrings, with green and white stones. “They were my mother’s. . . I thought you could wear them tonight, while playing your new role.”

“What is my new role?” you asked, noticing how Cobblepot had started to fondle your knuckles with his thumb. He was breathing slightly faster, almost in a nervous manner.

“A seductress, my dear. Do you think you’re up for it?”

***

Jonathan Crane observed the new guard with interest. His blue eyes studied the man’s movements from the darkness of his small worn cell. Watched how he walked tensed along the corridor, squeezing the flashlight with white knuckles. His eyes were wide, alert. There was a touch of sweat at his brow.

He was young, about his late twenties. Blonde, not very tall, rather slender by build. And he was afraid.

Oh yes, Jonathan could sense his fear all the way from the corridor. He could smell it, almost taste it. . . and it was wonderful.

 _“The boy fears us, fears everything. . . we should use him to get us out,”_ Scarecrow’s voice rasped from the darkness. Outside, the sky flashed white with lighting.

“He’s too frightened, he won’t trust me enough. . .”

 _“There’s no such thing as too frightened, Jonny-boy! Don’t you want to get out? Don’t you want to go see her. . . Oh yes, Jonny-boy, I know you’ve been thinking about her, dreaming about her. . . You want her_ _—_ _and you cannot get her out of your head until you’ve tasted her fear,”_ Scarecrow chuckled.

Jonathan shifted on his bed. His face was still bruised, his fractured ribs sore, but his twisted knee was better. He might be able to make it.

_“Com’on, Jonny-boy, up you get. It’s almost Halloween. . . You don’t want to miss that, do you?_ _—_ _A chance to offer her both, fear and pleasure on the best night of the year. . . Oh, just think about those screams she’ll make. . .”_

As Jonathan Crane pushed himself off the bed, the lightning struck again, making the lights of the asylum blink.

***

Oswald. . . lost. He lost big and heavy, all twenty thousand dollars. And he wasn’t happy about it.

It wasn’t your fault. You had done everything you could. You had flirted with the other players, served drinks, peeked at their cards —as much as Oswald had allowed you to. Even before the game he had told you to be careful, to work more as a distraction, than try to look at the cards. You had only followed instructions. . .

It made you wonder: Had Oswald perhaps been too careful, while telling you not to peek at the cards so much? Had he lost 20 000 grand, on purpose?

You found it difficult to believe, while watching his sad form at the couch, hunched, leaning on his knees with fingers laced beneath his chin. 

_At least he’s not terribly angry_ , you thought, remembering the fallen table and broken glass, carefully shifting closer. But then again, it might have been some other losing player, who had made them mess.

“Oswald. . .”

“Yes, love. . . ?” His voice sounded, slightly broken. Just a hint of cranky. Mostly disappointed.

“I am. . . sorry,” you told, in a lack of better words. “But if you look at this on the bright side, you won thirteen grand last time; it means you actually lost just a bit over seven, tonight.”

Oswald sighed; he still didn’t look at you. “You’re very optimistic, love. You find the good in everything. Even in. . .” his voice died down. He took off his monocle, rubbing his eyes before burying his face in his hands.

_Shit. He’s not crying, is he?_

“Oswald, it’s all right. You win again soon, right? Sometimes you got to lose to win again. You did good,” you told softly, placing your hand on his shoulder.

You rubbed his back slowly, feeling helpless and awkward. Who would have known he would take losing so seriously? Certainly this hadn’t been the first time. . .

You wished you had been sharper, more sober to deal with the situation. Oswald had kept you sipping from his glass rather frequently —often enough to get you tipsy.

“Hush. . . It’s all right,” you murmured again, placing your hand on Oswald’s knee, hoping to get his attention.

He turned to look at you, not exactly teary eyed, but. . . more like. . . Oh fuck.

His lips landed on yours with passion. Hungry, burning passion. His warm hands landed on your body: the right to the back of your head, to hold you still, while the left found its way around your waist, brining you closer. Pulling you into his soft warm embrace.

Oswald was a good kissed. The kind that made you to go weak on the knees, close your eyes and just give in. —But you knew better, than to kiss him back.

It took a moment, for you to push him away. Partly because you didn’t want to, and because he didn’t wish to break the kiss.

He was breathing fast, as he finally allowed you to win your struggle.

“Oswald—”

“I know, love, I know. . .” he murmured, pulling you into a second kiss, not any less passionate. His kiss was hungry, but slow. Deep, but not exactly forceful. He was enjoying you, tasting your lips, while his hands began to slowly roam your body. Your back, sides and hips, fondling you, never staying still for long, never grabbing for breast or making an attempt to slip between your legs. He was still asking permission, trying to seduce you with his touch.

And he was good at that, too. Apparently the Penguin possessed skills only age and experience would bring. . .

You pressed your hand against his chest, breathing just as fast as he was. You had to fight the urge to pull him closer, wrap your arms around him and just let him do whatever he wished to you.

“Oswald please. . .”

He moaned as his lips landed on your neck. He was seeking your soft spot, nibbling and tasting your skin, slowly persuading you to give in.

And you couldn’t help it, but let out the tiniest gasp of pleasure, before collecting yourself.

“Oswald, stop!”

He looked at you, your lips, still panting, before raising his gaze to meet your eyes. His right pupil was slightly larger than the left, you noticed.

“I want to know about Ed. Any news of Ed?” you asked, shifting slightly further, correcting your dress.

“Ed?” he whispered, his mouth twisting slightly. “You’re thinking about Ed?”

You nodded, hesitating. If you got fired now, paying your rent would be rather difficult.

Oswald pulled away, straightening his waistcoat. As he looked at you, his smile was cold. “I have no idea where Ed is. As I told you, love, he comes and goes as he pleases. And as long as he pays his bill, I don’t care.”

_Alright, then. . ._

“I should go home. Tonight was. . . unfortunate,” you told carefully, rising. Surely you could go. Your working hours were over.

“Love. . .”

“Yes, Mr. Cobblepot?”

“The earrings.”

“Yes, of course,” you told, smiling awkwardly, taking them off and dropping them on his waiting palm. “Your mother must have looked lovely while wearing them.”

“She did,” the Penguin told, nailing his eyes to yours. “And I wouldn’t call this night unfortunate, my little dove. As you said, I will occasionally have to lose, to win again later. . .”

You just smiled, nodded and wished him goodnight. There was no point in dwelling at the Lounge any longer. The situation had gone far enough already, you thought. As unfortunate as it was.

The rain continued still, as you made your way back to your apartment, changed back in your normal clothes. You had done the chancing in the staffs quarters, just in case, before delivering the dress back in Oswald’s office. You had thought it as a wise move; he had never told you could keep the dress. And to be completely honest, you currently didn’t feel too certain about your further employment. 

You were just turning the key in your lock, when you heard a sound of coughing.

“Alice. . . oh my beautiful Alice, I’ve found you. . .” and with those words, Jervis Tetch fell into another bad sounding coughing fit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The closer summer gets, the less often I'll probably update.   
> Probably. Possibly.   
> Like, during summer I'll update every other week  
> or once a month.   
> Just a heads up, so you know I'm not dead.


	17. What is a Hatter without his hat?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jervis is sick, you realize you have to take care of him.

“Jervis?” you gasped, looking at the smaller man in the dimness of the hallway.

He was dripping wet, enough so to leave a pool on the floor. He looked sick, pale, with heavy shadows resting under his eyes. He hadn’t shaved his face for a couple of days, you noticed.

“Alice I found you at least,” the Hatter murmured, taking a shaking step forward. He stumbled and fell on you, grabbing the collar of your coat between fumbling fingers. His eyes were wide and glassed, feverish, you noticed, looking back at him with slight panic and uncertainty.

“Oh Alice, your hair. . . you’re not hiding anymore. . . My lovely Alice. . .” the Hatter murmured, reaching for your hair. His fingers brushed a blonde loose lock, before he cupped your cheek. His hand felt clammy. “I am so glad, Alice. . .”

“Hey, hey, hey! stay with me, Jervis,” you told as the Hatter’s eyes rolled back, half closed. His body started to relax and you had to support his weight to keep him from pulling you down to the floor.

“What happened, are you all right?” you asked, remembering how Joker had stumbled into your apartment after being shot. You hoped Jervis’ condition wasn’t quite as severe.

“I followed the wrong girls, Alice my love. . . For days and nights I searched but from skies above. I wondered where my Alice could be —surely she wouldn’t be hiding from me. A-and I was right, silly old me, only I did not know how your hair would now be. . .”

_Alrighty, then. . ._

“Let’s get you inside,” you murmured as the Hatter turned away, coughing again. He was running a fever. _That’s what you get after spending days and nights in the rain, stalking girls with dark golden curls._ Seeing him like this made you feel almost guilty for dying your hair. . .

You helped the Hatter inside, taking off his soaked coat.

“I think you could use a warm bath and some chicken soup,” you told, reaching for his hat.

The Hatter grabbed your hand, swaying back and forth on unsteady feet.

“Alice, oh Alice. . . you cannot have my hat my sweet Alice. . . you know the rules; Hatter’s not a hatter without a hat.”

“ _Jervis_ ,” you spoke, making sure to say his name very clearly, “my name is Liz, remember? Not Alice. Now, your hat is wet and it has to dry. You don’t want to lose your fine hat, do you?”

“No, not my hat. Hatter cannot lose his hat,” Jervis murmured, nearly whining.

You nodded, attempting a calming smile. “That’s right. But _Jervis_ , your hat needs to dry. Otherwise it’ll be ruined forever. We can place it on the kitchen table. It’ll be safe there, while you’ll take a bath,” you told, holding out your waiting hand.

Jervis hesitated, but took off his hat in the end, handing it to you.

You looked at him for a while, observing. His baby-blue eyes looked very wide, almost frightened. His blonde hair appeared thin and dirty, slightly slickened by the rain. He looked very. . . lost.

“Good. Now take off your shoes. I’ll put the hat just over here,” you told smiling, watching Jervis to struggle out of his worn shoes. His clothing would require washing.

You chuckled to your own thoughts. _Here I am, ready to wash his clothes just as I did Joker’s. I’m running a damn bed and breakfast establishment here. . ._

“Now follow me, Jervis. I’ll run you a nice warm bath. . .”

The Hatter followed you, slightly shuffling his feet as he followed. You would have to borrow him some clothes. Perhaps one of your less used satin pajamas might fit him. He was very small in size, after all —and the pajama was two numbers too large for you. You had gotten it as Christmas present two years back.

Jervis sat on the toilet seat to wait and watch you to draw the bath. He looked tired, almost half asleep.

“You want a bubble bath or normal?” you asked, glancing at the small man over your shoulder.

He seemed lost in his head; there was a slight flush on his cheeks.

“Bubbles it is,” you muttered, squeezing a generous amount of pink soap into the water. It was pleasantly scented —and would do Jervis good. He looked like he could use a good washing, his hair especially.

“Well, then,” you spoke, closing the facet. “Hop in and make yourself comfortable while I make that soup for you. Just leave your clothes on the floor, I’ll wash them later. . . Jervis.”

“Huh?”

“In the bath, now,” you told again, frowning.

The hypnotists nodded, starting to take off his clothes. You left him to it, starting to go through your fridge to see what sort of chicken soup you’d be able to make. Not the good original kind, it appeared, since you didn’t have fresh chicken, but you had some chicken flavored noodles and a frozen vegetable mix. You’d have to work with those.

You were just heating up water, when your phone rang.

“What the fuck,” you muttered to yourself, making your way to the bag you had tossed on the couch. It was 3:30 in the morning.

The caller was. . . Oswald.

 _“Liz speaking,”_ you answered carefully, unsure what to expect.

 _“Love, it’s me,”_ his cheery, yet slightly concerned voice replied right away. _“You weren’t asleep yet, were you?”_

 _“No, Mr. Cobblepot, I wasn’t,”_ you told, your heart suddenly beating faster. What was this about?

_“I am glad to hear it. Listen, love; I noticed you left your dress in my office. . . You don’t plan on quitting your job, are you?”_

_“No Mr. Cobblepot. I am not,”_ you spoke, letting out a small sigh. _“I simply. . . well it was a very expensive dress. I didn’t feel comfortable keeping and it would have been impossible for me take it home without ruining it in the rain, anyway,”_ you told quickly.

He was quiet for a while, the line buzzed. _“I am glad to hear you’re coming back, love,”_ he then spoke. _“I don’t know how I would manage through my poker nights without your assistance,”_ he added and you could swear there was a small purr in his voice.

_“Mr. Cobblepot. . . Tonight was. . .”_

_“It sure was something, love. I haven’t been able to get you out of my head. You really played your role well.”_

_Oh fuck. . . things are just getting worse, aren’t they?_

_“Oswald, tonight was something. . . I don’t wish to happen again. I want to keep our relationship purely professional,”_ you told, holding your breath.

The line rattled, making Penguin’s silence seem long and loud.

 _“I understand, love,” he finally spoke._ His tone gave nothing away, not anger or disappointment. _“I actually called to tell you Ed contacted me a few minutes ago, asking for your home address. I didn’t give it to him.”_

_“Do you have his number?”_

_“Sorry, love. He was calling from a pay phone.”_

_“Did he say anything else? Did he leave a message, or something?”_

_“He was rather cranky and in a hurry, I fear. He babbled something about having other ways to find you. Are you in bad terms with him, love? Do you need protection?_

_“I think I’m good,”_ you told. _Once I get the chance to speak with him, at least. “If he calls again, please tell him. . . tell him Ryder made the whole thing up.”_

_“Whatever you say, love. Tomorrow at normal time. Sleep well.”_

_“I’ll be there. Thank you, Oswald,”_ you told, shutting your phone.

The Riddler had asked for your home address? Was he coming over? You couldn’t help but feel a small tingle excitement and anticipation, starting pool down in the pit of your stomach.

“Jervis, are you done yet?!” you called, dumping the veggies in with the noodles. A dash of chili might also do the hypnotists good.

As there was no answer, you went to knock on the bathroom door. “Jervis?” _Please, let him be conscious and not drowned in the bathtub. . ._

He was alive, apparently. Just fallen asleep.

“Jervis, wake up. Did you wash your hair already?” you asked, shaking him by the shoulder.

His eyes came open, shiny and feverish. “Liz. . .where. . . where am I?”

_He’s more messed up than I realized. . ._

“You’re in my home, Jervis. You’re sick. I think you will have to stay for a while. Just let me help you with your hair,” you told, starting to spread shampoo on his blonde locks. You’d get him out of your bathtub faster, if you helped him.

And Jervis seemed to enjoy the attention, or perhaps he was just tired, for he closed his eyes, allowing you to rub his scalp with your fingertips. He hummed in approval, leaning in to feel your touch. “You’re being so kind to me. . . Liz. So very kind. . .”

“I made you chicken noodle soup, so pull the plug, rinse yourself quickly and come eat it while it’s hot. You can borrow my bathrobe,” you told, washing your hands before exiting the bathroom. At least Jervis didn’t call you Alice anymore, which was good. You weren’t certain how to deal with him, if he happened to have one of his so called ‘episodes’ while in fever.

He wandered in the kitchen ten minutes later, wearing your canary yellow bathrobe. He looked slightly odd, dressed like that, clean and without his hat. He looked very . . . normal.

“Sit down and start eating. Here are some pills to help you to deal with that cold and they should help to bring the fever down. I’m going to make a bed for you,” you told, realizing this was yet again going to be one of those nights, when a super criminal was occupying your bed.

 _A pity it’s not Eddie_ , you thought, starting to put out fresh sheets. Oswald’s call made you wonder, though: Had something about Eddie’s call hinted he might hold a grudge against you? Were you in danger?

_Surely not in any more danger than I’ve already been. Eddie is a sensible fellow_ _—_ _and it was all a misunderstanding. He has no reason to hold any grudge. We weren’t even dating, not even fucking, yet._

Jervis had fallen asleep at the table, you noticed as you made your way back to the kitchen. At least he had taken the pills and finished his soup.

“Let’s get you to bed,” you told, gently easing your arm around him. He woke up just enough to walk into the bedroom, with your assistance.

“Change into this, while I’ll clean up the kitchen,” you told, laying out your black satin pajamas. You had already changed into yours, a long light-blue cotton shirt with 05 at the chest.

Jervis had managed well, you noticed as you came back. The pants were thankfully on and fit well enough and he needed just a little bit of help with the shirt.

“All right, then. Are you comfortable?” you asked, tucking him in. 

The tiny man nodded, grabbing your wrist. “Don’t go Liz. . . please don’t go.”

You hesitated. Sharing the bed with him didn’t feel like a wise idea, especially if he happened to have one of his Hatter episodes again, but considering his fever —and the fact the pills would most likely keep him knocked out for twelve hours. . . Perhaps sharing wasn’t such a bad idea, should he wake up in fever and be in the need of something.

 _It’s not a bad idea, if he actually stays knocked out and doesn’t have any wrong impressions_ , you thought, thinking of Oswald. There had already been enough wrong impressions with him.

“I’ll be here till you fall asleep, ok?” you told, reaching to stroke Jervis’ hair. It felt slightly damp, but clean. Less thin than before. You took his hand, lying down by his side.

Again the hypnotist nodded with a tired smile, closing his eyes.

You yawned, closing your eyes for a second. And that second, led into falling asleep.

For your surprise, you dreamed of Oswald that night.

You were at the Lounge with him, on his lap, moaning as he kissed your neck, nibbling the tender skin.

“Is this what you want, little dove?” he murmured in your ear, slipping his hand between your legs to stroke you through your wet panties.

You moaned with a nod, your neck arching. “Yes. Yes. . . Very much. . .”

“You like it here, don’t you, little dove? Like it when Uncle Oswald takes good care of you?” he mused, shifting your panties to slip two fingers in.

You gasped in ecstasy, starting to rock your hips, riding his fingers while he kissed his way down your collarbone. His other hand sneaked its way behind your back, reaching to pull at the lime green pear thong.

You were naked, you realized, despite your heels and the scandalous undergarment that had probably started this whole misunderstanding in the first place.

“Yeah, you enjoy her, Oswald. Make her cum by all means. I’d finger her better, though,” a familiar voice replied from the shadows.

As you turned to glance over your shoulder, you saw Eddie on the couch, sipping a martini in his green suit.

“I think you should slip in a third, Pengy. Though after some clown cock, nothing seems funny anymore,” Joker spoke, walking in the VIP-zone, nothing but your towel around his waist.

Oswald grabbed you chin, tuning you to face him. “Don’t listen to them, love. Just concentrate on me; I’ll take care of you. . .”

“Use your thumb to stimulate her clit, Oswald! Can’t you see she’s getting bored,” the Riddler spoke, making a gesture with his glass.

You whimpered, feeling how your pleasure started to close in.

“Oswald. . . Oswald please. . .”

“Yes, love,” the Penguin murmured, shoving his fingers slightly deeper while teasing your clit with the tip of his thumb. “Our relationship is purely _professional_.”

You cried out, grabbing his shoulders as your orgasm hit you. Hard. Hard enough to wake you up.

“Oh Alice. . . I knew I still managed the old tricks,” the Hatter giggled with a bright smile, pulling you closer. You could feel his fingers, pulling out of your wet cunt. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I enjoyed writing that dream part so much. . .


	18. Wanted, loved and captured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You take care of Jervis  
> -and meet an old friend. . .

Oswald Cobblepot squirmed beneath the fine satin sheets of his kingly bed. His lips were parted; his neck slightly arched against the soft pillows. He was panting. His cock was hard, making a tent in his black silk pajamas.

He was dreaming of her, his little dove. . .

She was fierce in his dream. And hungry. So very hungry, for him. . .

Her hands were greedy on his body till he pinned them above her head, fighting a moan as she wrapped her legs around his waist, lips hungry on his mouth.

She rocked her hips against his as a sweet invitation, opening her mouth for him, welcoming his tongue, touching it with her own.

She nibbled at his lip, smirking. His mother’s emerald earrings glittered in her ears, a peal necklace with a matching pendant lay cool against her naked bosom. . .

 _“Take me Oswald, take me Oswald. . .”_ she pleaded.

And Oswald did, guiding his cock in, delighted by her soft gasp as she took in his size.

As he thrust, the little dove moaned, her walls tight around him, sliding hot and wet along his hardened shaft.

_“Harder Oswald. . . I want you deeper. Deeper! Oh god. . . I love you Oswald!”_

Penguin stirred awake to the Saturday noon with a twitch of his hips and a small gasp, till he fell back against the pillows. He was still breathing fast, a touch of sweat glittered at his brow.

His dream had been. . . most vivid.

Oswald lay still for a long while, savoring the memory of her touch, not shying away from him, but embracing him, accepting him, welcoming him.

And he realized it: He needed her. He needed her as much as he needed water and food to stay alive. . .

***

You flinched, feeling Jervis’ hand settle on your bare thigh beneath the covers, his fingers still wet from your arousal.

“Jervis, what the—”

His lips pressed against yours, making you swallow the words of reproach. His stubble scathed you chin, but his lips were sweet and warm. Inviting.

His hands wrapped around your body as he rolled on top of you, making the kiss go deeper —and you kissed back, tasting a slight touch of mint from his lips.

You could feel him smirking into the kiss, till he pulled away for air, goggling at you lovingly with his large baby blue eyes.

“Jervis—”

He pressed a finger on your lips with a hushing sound. And began his way down. His lips left a trail on you, on your chin, neck, collarbone. . . And he slipped beneath the covers, trailing his lips along your body.

You whimpered quietly, feeling his hands, slipping to the sides of your panties to pull them down. Your back arched in anticipation and you closed your eyes. The clock on your nightstand sounded very loud, the slow ticks of its pointers loud and steady in your ears.

Jervis’s mouth landed on your slit, his hands gently grabbed your thighs, pulling you into a better angle. His tongue touched your clit, soon followed by his lips. He was kissing you, tasting you down there as he would have tasted your lips. 

You couldn’t hold back the moan any longer. He was good. Surprisingly good. Gentle, loving, worshipping. Everything a Hatter should be to his Alice. . .

Your hands reached to grab the pillow beneath your head as you bit your lip, slightly rocking your hips. You had fantasized about the hypnotist before, pleasured yourself while thinking about him —there was nothing wrong here. You weren’t committed to anyone. . .

Your muscles tightened as the familiar feeling hit you, making you cry out in pleasure.

The hypnotist emerged from under the blanket soon enough, licking his lips.

“Alice, oh Alice, don’t deny it: I did well. With the way you moaned, I can tell,” he giggled, leaning in to steal another kiss.

You could taste yourself from him, you realized hazily.

“I gave you pleasure, Alice my sweet. . . Now will you reward me, with the same treat?” The Hatter rhymed against your neck in a murmur, pulling your leg on his waist beneath the covers. You could feel it, his erection, pressing against you.

You couldn’t deny being tempted, curious even —but encouraging Jervis’ delusions didn’t seem like a wise idea.

“My name’s not Alice, Jervis,” you whispered. “It’s Liz, remember? We’ve met before. I am your friend.”

Jervis looked lost for a while, almost boyish.

“You don’t. . . want to return the favor, Alice?”

“My name’s not Alice,” you repeated gently, wondering what you should do, if Jervis happened to go catatonic again. Perhaps with luck, it wouldn’t come to that.

Jervis looked at you, tilting his head. “You’re. . . not my Alice?”

_Oh no. Not this shit again. . ._

“I am Liz,” you stated strongly. “I am your _friend_. You came here last night. You were terribly sick, you probably still are,” you added after a while.

Jervis flinched slightly, shifting further from you. And then, he went completely still with a distant look in his eyes.

_Wonderful. Truly wonderful. . ._

“I think I should make us breakfast. You need to eat, to get better,” you told, rising from the bed. There was nothing you could do, but wait. Jervis would come out of his vegetable state sooner or later, you hoped. . .

As you went to kitchen, you noticed your phone was blinking to report two missed calls and an arrived text message. Both were from Oswald.

_Just checking you’re alright, love._

_You didn’t answer your phone._

_I guessed your phone was on mute_

_or you might still be sleeping._

_Tonight at 9:00 sharp._

_I’ll be waiting._

_xx_

You frowned at the xx-part, shaking your head while taking out a frying pan.

“Eggs and bacon OK with you, Jervis?!” you called over your shoulder to the bedroom, when a thought occurred to you: Why had Eddie called to Oswald for your home address, since he had already tracked your phone? He knew where you lived, after all, he had had the thong delivered to your front door. . .

Jervis interrupted the train of your thoughts by his agreeing mutter, soon emerging to the kitchen, still wearing your black satin pajamas. He took a seat, starting to spin the cup of hot coffee in his hands you placed in front of him.

“You’re welcome to use milk and sugar, or would you have preferred tea?” you asked, studying the hypnotist from the corner of your eye. He seemed to be deep in thought, but not disoriented. He was himself, you dared to guess.

“Coffee’s fine. Thank you.” His blue eyes shifted towards the hat you had moved from the table to the couch.

“I could wash your clothes, _Jervis_ : they should be dry by the eve,” you said, making certain to put some weight on his name. Just to make sure he would remain himself. You had hidden his pocket watch, though, just in case. Whether he could use other watches to hypnotize you, you did not know. Nor cared to find out. . .

“Yes. Yes of course.”

“Jervis. . . ?”

“Yes?”

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Yes. Yes. I Just. . . I. . . I am sorry. So very sorry. I. . . I didn’t hurt you. . . did I?” he asked, just briefly raising his gaze. He was almost in tears.

“No. You did not,” you told, smiling awkwardly, uncertain if he remembered anything about the recent episode.“I think you should stay for a couple of nights,” you added. “At least till you’re feeling better and that nasty cough is gone.”

The hypnotist’s eyes lit up with your words. “I would be very grateful, Liz.”

***

Bruce and Dick were in the middle of a mild argument when Alfred made his way into the Batcave with a tea tray in hand.

“You want me to spy on her?” Dick asked his old mentor, arms crossed over his chest and an amused smile on his lips.

“No. I want you to make sure she’s safe. Keep an eye on her, talk to her if you can —Tell her of the dangers.”

“Com’on Bruce. Liz is a big girl, she can take care of herself. Besides, why cannot you talk to her yourself?”

“Crane did something to her. She’s terrified of Batman. I cannot go near her without her screaming and running blindly into the arms of the villains to get to safety.”

It sounded like it was difficult for Dick to swallow back his snort. He cleared his thought, though, asking, “You can’t talk to her as yourself, then?”

Bruce shook his head. “Unfortunately, we are not at the best of terms at the moment. . .”

“Yeah, because you tracked her phone. . .”

“She works at the Lounge, Dick. . .”

“If she wants to work at the Lounge, then so what? Penguin’s probably the least dangerous of the criminals she might encounter, if she sees him at all.”

“It’s not all about the Penguin or the Lounge. She’s been held hostage by the Riddler, crane and Tetch. All let her go unharmed. . .”

“And that is the problem? They let her go unharmed?”

Bruce frowned, making Dick sigh. “Fine, fine. I’ll see your point. It starts with Penguin and soon it’ll be the Joker she’s dealing with. I get it. I’ll follow her tonight, see what she’s up to, then pull her to the side and give her a lecture. . .”

***

“Will you be okay by yourself?” you asked, touching Jervis’ forehead. He was back in bed, his fever returned. You had washed his clothes and left them to dry. He was still wearing your pajamas.

The hypnotist nodded with a weak smile. “I’ll be fine. Thank you, for letting me stay.” He coughed to the blanket for a couple of times. At least his cough sounded slightly better than before.

“I left you some soup in the fridge, so just microwave it if you get hungry. Try to stay in bed, there’s plenty of water on the night stand and small towels below the sink you can water and put on your forehead if you get too uncomfortable. I’ll be back within an hour,” you told, snatching your purse with you.

You would have to hurry if you wished to do your shopping before going to the Lounge. It was already 7:20pm and it had started to get dark. The street lights were on. The clouds hung heavy over the city but at least the rain had stopped for a moment.

While making your way down the stairs, you considered calling a cab, then decided against it. You needed to save your money, since now you were feeding Jervis as well.

You had just made it outside and turned around the corner, when there was a sound of a clicking gun.

For a brief second you thought it was Harley, coming to kill you, until you heard a familiar voice, speaking from the shadows: “Don’t move, Minx.”

You turned around, a happy smile on your face. “Eddie? Eddie! I am so glad I found—”

“—Don’t you _Eddie_ me,” the Riddler growled. He looked fierce, his reddish brown hair dripping wet, his blue-green eyes shiny in the dark.

“I wanted to call you, but your number did not work,” you told anxiously, spreading your arms.

The gun went off with a muffled sound and with it, the world darkened around you.

“I told you not to move,” The Riddler spoke quietly. . .


	19. Deep in trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're deep in trouble.  
> You try to talk your way out of it.  
> Oswald is worried.  
> And Batman hears something he sorely wishes he hadn't.

You woke up groggy and sore all over. There was an especially sore spot closed to your left shoulder, right next to the breast.

You reached to touch the wound, hitting your hand in the dark.

Hitting your hand to what?

You raised your hands to feel the. . . wall —no. Not wall. It couldn’t be wall. It was too close. . .

With a silent panicked curse you started to feel around more, soon getting confirmation to your fears. You had hit your hand to a lid.

You were inside a coffin.

_Shit. Shit. . . Am I dead? No. I’m awake. That means I can’t be dead. . . Just . . . buried alive. . ._

There was a jingling sound and a sudden light filled the dark small space. It was a phone, resting on your belly.

It wasn’t your phone. The number was unknown. Yet you answered.

_“Hello?”_

_“Wakey, wakey Minx. Wondering why you’re feeling sore all over?”_ a soft, gloating voice answered.

 _“Eddie?”_ you whispered, glad at first, then terrified as the memories flooded back. He had been there, close to your apartment. And he had shot you.

_“That’s right, Minx. By now you have probably guessed you’re in a very tight and uncomfortable situation. . .”_

_“You shot me,”_ you spoke, your voice hoarse and cracking. Your mouth felt dry.

 _“What sharp observation, my dear. You always were a smart one,”_ Riddler’s voice mocked. _“You’re not wounded, though. It was horse tranquilizer you were shot with.”_ He sounded angry, bitter. . .

You wet your dry lips, closing your eyes for a second. You weren’t bleeding to death, at least. . .

_“Eddie, listen to me. . .”_

_“_ _—_ _No. You listen to me, Minx and listen carefully,”_ the Riddler snapped. “ _Take that phone off your ear and put yourself on facetime. After all. . . the billionaire might not pay unless he’s certain it is you who’s in trouble. . .”_

 _“What do you mean?”_ you asked, your voice rough. Your mind felt foggy, the situation unreal. It was difficult to concentrate. . .

_“Do as you’re told._ _—_ _And I wouldn’t waste air on arguing, if I were you. You’ve been there for quite a while, you know. . .”_

You fought a gasp, swallowed and put yourself on facetime.

_“Well. Here I am. . .”_

_“Good,”_ the Riddler’s cheery voice replied before his face appeared on the screen of the phone. His hair was in slight disarray, his skin dampened by sweat. He was wearing his glasses. You hoped he wouldn’t have. They hid his eyes because of the reflection of the light. You wanted to see his eyes. . .

 _“Why don’t you try to cry a little, we’re going live soon,”_ the Riddler told matter-of-factly.

The phone rattled, the Riddler’s face soon replaced by your own. You were looking at yourself, from another screen. One of the large ones at downtown. You were getting live image of yourself, displayed to whole Gotham.

_“Good evening billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne! As you may have noticed, you have misplaced something of yours. Well I found it, collected it and carefully stored it somewhere safe._ _—_ _Your girl friend, Miss Amber Pennyworth has been buried alive. You can have her location, in exchange for ten million dollars. Tick-Tock, though. Her time’s running short. . . Transfer the money on the account I’ve e-mailed you. You have an hour.”_

You could see the downtown from the phone, the people pointing at the screen, gasping, some of them digging out their phones to film the scene.

***

Oswald was pacing around the VIP-room of the Lounge, limping slightly with each step.

“She isn’t answering her phone, Bob. She was supposed to be here fifteen minutes ago. . .”

“Yes, boss.”

“But perhaps. . . she’s just late. You know. Late because of traffic, or some. . . unexpected thing,” the Penguin muttered with an impatient wave of his hand. He stopped to look at the table: The roses and candles at its centre. Tonight, there would be no poker game. Tonight the room would be his and hers alone. . . That was, if she would appear.

“Sure thing, boss.”

Oswald turned around, eyeing the goon under his brow. “Are you agreeing just for the sake of agreeing?”

The goon considered a moment, nodding. “Yes, boss.”

Oswald groaned, closing his eyes for moment. What good were these people? What did he pay them for?

He was getting anxious. This wasn’t going at all like he had planned. He had wanted to spend the evening with her, offer her fancy dinner. . . Talk about. . . her future at the Lounge. Her future with him. . .

“What if she quit, boss?”

“No!” Oswald said right away, so sharply the goon flinched, probably expecting to get stabbed. “She said she wasn’t going to quit. Something must have happened to her. Give me your phone. If she’s not answering we’ll go to her apartment. . .”

***

_“Bruce_ _—_ _”_

_“I know, Dick. Lucius sent me the video. I’m on my way to the GCPD,”_ Bruce told, interrupting the former Boy Wonder. He was driving fast. The scenery flashed by as the lights of Gotham got closer, burning bright in the night.

_“You plan to pay him?”_

_“I already did. He sent me her location, but it’s a riddle. There are three possible places she might be. I can’t narrow it down more. I’ll tell the GCPD to go to the Steel Mill. You go to the construction site by the southern bridge. I’ll make an appearance to people before going to the final location as Batman.”_

_“What is the final location?”_

_“The abandoned wear house near docks I’ll be in touch. Keep your com open.”_

***

_“Eddie. . .”_

_“Don’t call me Eddie!”_ the Riddler’s voice called back through the broadcast. Apparently, only you could hear him, for the people at downtown did not react. They were only watching your sweaty, blue light illuminated face.

 _“What if Bruce is out of town. . .?”_ you asked quietly.

There was silence. A long one.

And then, _“That seems to be your problem, not mine.”_

You weren’t ready to give up. How could you even be sure Bruce would get the information? An hour was a short time. . . How much time had already passed? Ten minutes? Twenty minutes? No more than five? You had forgotten to look at the time while picking up the phone for the first time.

 _“Is there a riddle? If I answer it correctly, will you let me go?”_ you asked carefully, swallowing. Your mouth felt dry. The coffin felt very warm.

The Riddler chuckled, dryly. _“Of course there is a riddle, my dear. Once your billionaire pays, he gets your location. Whether he’s smart enough to solve where it is. . . well that remains to be seen. . .”_

You swallowed again, feeling your eyes get moist. You allowed yourself one deep inhale.

_“Are the people hearing this conversation?”_

Again, a short silence. _“Not unless I want them to.”_

_“Good. Listen, what you saw on the paper was totally made up. It was all Ryder. There is no romance. Bruce surprised me and I pushed him away. I didn’t want to kiss him. . .”_

Silence. The line rattled.

You decided to continue; _“Why would I even want to kiss Bruce, when I have you? I thought about you, Eddie. . . I wanted to finish what we started so badly. . .”_

_“You’re just trying to talk yourself out of this. . . I’d save the air, if I were you.”_

_“No, listen. . .”_

***

_“The construction site was empty, except for new clue. I picked up his radio signal, though.”_

_“Do you know where he is?”_ Batman’s brooding voice asked. He didn’t sound as brooding as usually, Dick noticed. There was a touch of concern in his voice.

_“Not yet. He’s talking with her_ _—_ _”_

_“_ _—_ _Put them on. I want to hear what they’re saying.”_

_“I don’t think you want hear this, Bruce. I wouldn’t_ _—_ _”_

_“_ _—_ _Put them on,”_ and this time, the command came with Batman’s voice. His intimidating voice.

Dick did as he was told, stopping to catch his breath on a rooftop. If he tracked the signal, then might find at least one of them. . . And with luck, he could find the receiving signal —and Liz.

***

_“. . . I couldn’t stop thinking about it, your lips on mine. Your hands on my body. . . The things you did to me, Eddie. You’ve kept me awake at night, wanting, aching. . .”_

You could hear his breathing from the line, fast, shallow. . .

_“You’re just trying to appeal to my ego, make me let you go. . .”_

You were sweating and uncomfortable. The orange fluffy sweater you had worn had glued to your skin. _“Why did you bury me alive, Eddie?” you then asked, taking shallow breaths. “You could have done anything to me. Anything you could think of. Like when you first held me hostage, I sort of hoped you would do something. . . Something bad,”_ you breathed out.

The line rattled. _“You did?”_

***

Oswald was outraged and sick from worry as he limped his way down the stairs and back to the rainy street.

“She doesn’t answer her phone, she doesn’t answer her door. . .”

“Maybe she’s not home, boss?”

“Of course she isn’t home, you dimwit!” the Penguin hissed, making his way to the car. “Lets drive around and then go back at the Lounge. I’ll try to call her one more time. If something happened to her, if someone hurt her. I’ll kill them.”

“Sure thing boss,” the goon spoke, getting behind the wheel.

Oswald frowned, fidgeting with his phone. His hands shook. He wondered idly whether he should go to file a missing person report. . . He probably should. Anything that would help him to get her back.

“Drive to downtown. I need to visit the GCPD,” he told his goon.

***

_“Let me go, Eddie. Let me go and I’ll let you do anything you like to me. I want you to. I want to feel you inside of me, filling me up. . .”_

Bruce could still hear her words and he glided over the buildings and through the rain. His heart was beating was, as it had done during the first nights, when he had picked up the cowl and cape. He could hear his own blood, rushing in his veins.

The conversation he had listened had . . . it had been worse than he had expected.

Dick had been right. It would have been better, if he hadn’t heard. If he hadn’t know. . .

She could have said those things only to get herself out of trouble, but there were details there, telling a tale of her somewhat intimate relationship with the Riddler.

Whether that relationship had happened willingly, or out of fear or because of blackmail. . . Bruce did not know. Didn’t want to know. He wasn’t even certain if he wanted to find out —But he would have to. And when he did, he would have to act accordingly.

***

 _“Have you thought about what I said?”_ you asked, wetting your lips again. Your voice was but a whisper now, so weak and tender. _“Let me out and we’ll do as we should have done, when you first had me tied up in that chair. . . I want to feel your hands on my body, Eddie. I want to savor your touch, the feel of your hands, running up my thighs. I want to feel your breath brush against my ear. I want to feel your lips on my neck as you pull down my zipper and slip your hand up my shirt. What do you say, Eddie? Wanna solve the mystery that remains yet unsolved?”_

There was silence and then a sound. But the sound did not come from the phone. It came somewhere closer. Somewhere near. It was metallic, like a door or something heavy, shifted or dragged across concrete. Then there was a yelp. Then silence again.

You started to scream, knowing very well those might be last screams you’d ever make.

“Help! Heeeelp! Somebody! Help!”

The lid of the coffin flung open and you were almost ready to start screaming again, this time from pure terror, till you realized it wasn’t Batman you were looking at. It was Nightwing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deep in trouble. . .  
> Hehe, pun intended.


	20. Romantic trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald is such a romantic.  
> Batman does some detective work  
> and Dick is worried about him.

“She was never in any real danger. . .”

Nightwing shook his head. “There were only a couple of handfuls of dirt on the coffin. Either Nigma has gotten lazy, or he staged the whole thing on purpose. The lid had been closed with a latch. The boards at the foot of the coffin had good big gaps between them. If there had been any light in the room, she would have noticed it had been staged.”

Bruce frowned, gazing over the rooftops. “An abandoned cellar, sound proof room. Enough air to keep her alive, should she have fallen unconscious. . .”

“It was all about the money, then?”

It was possible, though Bruce hoped it wasn’t. If it was, Liz might have been a part of it. A criminal, no different from the Riddler.

“No. It was more than that. It was personal,” Bruce replied after a while. It was raining again. The streets were filled with the sound of sirens. Liz should be safe and warm at GCPD now. Dick had left her with Gordon before making his exit.

“A lovers’ quarrel, really?”

Bruce did not reply right away. Considering the situation, even with its surprising elements, it appeared Dick may have been right in his words. Except there may not have been so much love in the air as he had thought. Certainly Nigma was insane, narcissistic, suffering from severe OCD and megalomania, but all this trouble. . . If there once had been a romantic relationship between him and Liz, it certainly was there no longer. Not unless Nigma’s compulsive need for attention had made him to bury her alive to get that attention, but it seemed farfetched.

“Quarrel, yes. Lovers, no. Not anymore, at least,” Bruce replied after a while. He was having difficulties to concentrate. He could still hear her words in his ears, the sultry suggestions she had spoken to Nigma, begging his hands and mouth on her body. . .

“What was that talk, about you kissing her?”

“Nigma’s still missing,” Bruce interrupted. “It was sloppy of you, to let him get away.”

“I knocked him out and went to save Liz. I thought keeping her alive was more important than checking whether Nigma was properly unconscious or not,” Dick defended.

“I would have been there in two minutes.”

Dick looked at his former master with crossed arms. “Are you serious, Bruce? You wanted me to take care of Nigma, so you could have been the one to save Liz?”

“The Riddler is still missing. I will go after him. Go back to the cave. Wait me there,” Bruce told, diving off the rooftop. He needed to think.

***

You were cold and dripping wet as you walked in to the warmth of the GCPD. The whole building smelled of cigarettes, cheap whiskey and coffee.

“Sit over there to wait, someone will come to talk to you soon,” Gordon told, walking in his office. He was soon tailed by a dark haired woman in uniform, looking anxious while she talked.

You sat down to wait, numb physically and emotionally. You were shivering, but whether it was from the cold or shock, you couldn’t tell.

You had been happy to see Ed. But then . . . then everything had gone downhill. . .

 _Would he have let me out, if Nightwing hadn’t come just then?_ You wondered, raising your gaze with the sound of a familiar voice, ranting loudly.

“She’s somewhere out there, buried alive! You have to look for her! Put choppers in the air, have dogs sniff after her! Just find her!”

“Mr. Cobblepot, calm down—”

“—No! I won’t calm down until you do something!”

“Oswald?”

The Penguin froze, looking at you till relief washed over him, making his eyes goes wide and moist.

“Liz! You can’t believe how worried I was. When you didn’t show up for work. . . and then I saw the video while driving through downtown. . . I was so worried,” the Penguin stammered, limping his way to you, offering you his hand. “Come, I’ll take you home.”

You rose, tired, shivering. Grateful, as he pulled you close to his warm body.

“Mr. Cobblepot you can’t just take her, she’s a victim and a witness—”

“—She’s also in a need of dry clothes and a drink!” the Penguin snarled. “She hasn’t done anything illegal, so you cannot keep her here against her will. If you need to press charges, press them against Edward Nigma! Do you want to go, love?” Oswald then asked, looking at you.

You nodded weakly, unable to think of any reason to stay. You weren’t going to press any charges. You weren’t on the mood for it. Too much had happened too quickly. You needed time to mull it over, before deciding anything.

“See! We’re leaving,” the Penguin hissed to the officer, gently pushing you forward to guide you out.

His car waited at the front and you were grateful to get in, safe and out of the rain.

Oswald joined you at the back seat, offering you a fur trimmed coat. “I’m sorry I can’t make you any warmer, love,” you murmured, pulling you close, planting a soft kiss on your knuckles.

In your exhausted state, you did not offer any words of reproach. Oswald had a way to. . . make you comfortable. To make you feel safe.

“When I see Eddie next, I’ll shoot him. . .” the Penguin murmured after a while. He was still rubbing your fingers, your head rested against his shoulder.

“Eddie would have let me go,” you replied mechanically. “It was a misunderstanding. He was just trying to prove a point,” you added, uncertain why you were still defending him. Uncertain whether to believe your own words.

Oswald sighed deeply, dropping the subject. His arm had found its way around your shoulders. His fingers caressed you softly through the coat.

“I think your driver’s lost. I live at the opposite direction,” you told after a while, your voice weak and silent. You needed sleep. And perhaps that drink.

“Oh we’re not going to your home, love. We’re going to mine,” Oswald told.

***

“Do you think something’s . . . off with Bruce?” Dick asked Alfred, watching him to work on a voice synthesizer. It was an old model. Bruce had lost the new one recently, during his fight with Harley.

The butler stilled for a while, considering. “I think Master Bruce has been under a lot of stress lately. Nothing to worry about, I am sure. . .”

“He’s got a thing for Liz, doesn’t he?”

“He has always been fond of Liz. . .”

“He kissed her and Ryder made a speculative story of it. Nigma kidnapped and partly buried her because of that.” Dick said, regretting his words and the tiny screwdriver nearly slipped off the butler’s hand.

Alfred cleared his throat. “I have seen the picture. What Master Bruce does. . . Well, I think being close to someone might do him good. As long as Liz is fine with it, I am fine with it.”

“I think he has changed, Alfred. Gotten more dark and. . . possessive. More tense.”

“I believe it may be because of what happened with Miss Kyle,” Alfred sighed sadly. “It hit Master Bruce harder than expected. I fear he has not yet fully recovered from it.”

***

Oswald’s house was big and fancy. The furnishing was old fashioned, much like in his office and there was a fire rattling cozily at the fireplace of the living room.

“Come in, love. Come in, you must be freezing,” Oswald, murmured, guiding you towards the fireplace. “Olga! Olga I want you to make a bath for our guest!”

You stilled, hesitating. “I am grateful, but I really should go home,” you muttered, watching the Penguin to pour you both a glass of scotch. “Could I borrow a phone, to call a cab?” You had lost yours, or perhaps Eddie had it. You did not know.

“Nonsense, love. You’re not going anywhere. I won’t let you sleep alone in your apartment after what just happened. Now drink this while Olga makes you a hot bath. We need to get you warm and out of those wet clothes.”

You sipped your drink, doing your best to ignore the small glint in Oswald’s eyes. The whiskey burned your throat pleasantly, finally helping to stop your shivering.

“Another, love?”

You shook your head, slightly awkward. Your mind was running clearer now, despite the whiskey and your state of exhaustion. Much clearer than it had done at the GCPD or in the car. You were at your boss’ house, about to take a bath and stay the night. And you knew he fancied you. . .

“I think I perhaps should—”

“The bath is ready Mr. Penguin,” a blonde middle aged woman with strong east European accent called while walking down the stairs.

“Go on, love,” Oswald smiled, gently pushing you towards the woman. “Olga will leave you some dry clothes and after you’re done, we’ll eat something. You must be starving.”

You followed the maid upstairs, glancing at Oswald over your shoulder. He smiled at you, a hand in his pocked, the other holding a glass.

“This way, Miss. Mr. Penguin has given you one of the guest rooms. I’ll bring you clean clothes. Give the wet ones to me for washing.”

You did as you were told, feeling slightly awkward to strip in front of the maid. She was very discreet, though, looking at the floor while you stripped, picking up the clothes only after you had slipped into the bathroom. It was just as fancy as you had imagined. Intimate, dimly lit with a large tub and fresh towels. Very Oswald, in other words.

The water was marvelously warm as you lowered yourself into the tub, drawing in your knees. It was kind of Oswald, to take care of you like this. Kind and sweet. And you believed he had been genuinely worried.

_Such a large house, and no one but a maid to wait him to come home. . ._

You begun to wonder what it would be like, to live in a house like this. To be there, to welcome Oswald home. He would probably want to have a drink first, keeping the Lounge running was a tough job. . . Or perhaps you would wait him in the dining room, ready to serve late supper. He would like that. It would make him feel cozy.

Or perhaps you would wait him in the bedroom, naked, on his bed.

 _Or perhaps I could be almost naked; I could wear one of his ties and a top hat, just to delight him,_ you though, running a hand over your breast. Your nipple perked up immediately. There was a hot heavy feeling pooling at your lower belly.

The day had been . . . a rough one. And you needed some release. So. . . why not?

 _Nothing wrong about fantasizing, my boss or not_ , you thought, slipping a hand between your legs to stroke your clit. You liked it, actually. The whole situation: Being there naked, in your boss’ house. It felt wrong and it excited you —to do something you knew you shouldn’t do. And as you slipped in two fingers, you imagined it was Oswald’s cock, sliding in your wet cunt.

***

“I want some candles, Olga,” Oswald told, looking around the room. He was in his second glass of scotch, his mind flashing rich with images of bearskin rugs and living fire. The bearskin he did not have, but fireplace and candles would bring some romance in the room.

“Candles, Mr. Penguin? You already have the fire.”

“Yes, but I want candles. Lots of them. All around the room. And something to eat. Finger-food.”

“The girl is hungry Mr. Penguin. I think she’d like something a bit more filling. Goulash, maybe, made by one of your mother’s recipes?”

“I said finger-food, Olga. Something that is easy to . . . feed to another person. And wine!”

“Ah. . . you wish to court the young lady Mr. Penguin. I’ll arrange everything,” the maid told knowingly.

“Please, do. And once you’re done, have the rest of the night off,” Oswald told, making an impatient gesture towards the kitchen.

He sat down before the fireplace, drawing breath while removing his monocle. He was anxious. Nervous like a schoolboy. It had been a while, since he had been with a woman. And even longer one, since he had had feelings for anyone.

Oswald swallowed, knowing he would have to take things slowly. Keep his actions subtle, almost innocent. The little Dove had told she wished to keep their relationship purely professional, but surely she would come around, in the end. After all, he had so much to offer her. . .

***

You noticed Olga had indeed left you some clean clothes on the bed, as you walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in a puffy soft towel. The ‘clothes’ turned out to be a black satin nightdress with lace at the open cleavage and a purple robe. That was all. Why Oswald had those clothes in his house exactly in your size. . . You chose it was better not to over think it. A gift he had meant for one of the other girls, working at the Lounge? Possessions of a former lover, never reclaimed? Yes. You liked those theories. And settled for them.

As you slipped into the nightdress, you noticed it wasn’t exactly your size, after all. It was a little tight, hugging your breast. Your perked nipples showed through the thin fabric, but the purple satin robe would cover them.

The maid had left you no shoes or slippers and since she had taken your boots to be cleaned, you made your way downstairs barefoot. Your hair was still towel moist, making you feel even more self-conscious.

_Here I am, going to see the boss half naked, after masturbating in his tub. . . What could possibly go wrong?_

Oswald waited for you in the living room, surrounded by a sea of candles. He was fidgeting with a wine bottle, reading the label.

The setting was enough to make you cautious. You doubted heavily the candles had been laid out because of a power cut.

Oswald turned to face you as the step creaked under your foot, his mouth curving into a soft smile. You realized he had removed his monocle.

“There you are, love. I was beginning to wonder if you had fallen asleep.”

“No. Not yet,” you told, smiling awkwardly, wrapping the robe tighter around you. “I was enjoying the bath and time slipped by. Thank you, for the dry clothes.”

“You’re welcome, love. Sit down, get yourself warm. Olga arranged us some food, but I am afraid it is more of finger-food, than actual supper,” the Penguin told, completely dismissing the state of your dress, or undress, as you thought it.

You did as you were bid, taking a seat by the fire. Oswald sat next to you on the sofa soon enough.

“You look lovely,” he breathed with a smile. “I am glad the clothes fit —I was going to gift them to my mother but . . . she passed away before I had the chance.”

_That’s one mystery solved, then. . ._

“Mother was a small woman, much as yourself,” Oswald continued, pouring you a glass of wine, “A pity she never got to live in this house. . .”

“I am sorry for your loss,” you said, in lack of better words. “I know you loved your mother very much.”

Oswald nodded. “I did. She was an amazing woman, truly. Having her hands full raising a son like me.”

“You’re too sweet. It is hard to imagine you would have been a difficult child,” you spoke, taking the offered glass. The wine was strong and tasted slightly spicy. It was perfect, warming you from inside.

“I am glad you see me that way, love,” Oswald smiled, refilling your glass. “Eat, you must be starving,” he then murmured, offering you a canapé of some sort. Sour cream and salmon, you guessed.

You glanced at the tray on the table, conveniently placed too far from you. Either you would have to walk around Oswald, or all the food would be handed by him. And all of it was finger-food. Canapés, cocktail bites, strawberries with chocolate. . .

You didn’t need to guess twice where this was going. . .

“Oswald. . .”

“Yes, love?” the Penguin asked. You could see he was breathing slightly faster.

You crossed your legs, feeling awkward. The robe slipped slightly off your leg with the gesture, revealing your leg all the way up to the knee.

_Keep a clear head now. Do not let this escalate on any direction. . ._

“I don’t think we should be doing this. . .”

“Doing what, love?”

“This, the whole thing. You’re my boss. . .”

Oswald chuckled. “Don’t worry about that, love. We can forget that for a moment. Just let me take care of you. You’re my guest now.” He brought the canapé to your lips, giving your very little option. The polite one; take a bite. The impolite one; to turn your head away.

You chose the polite one, taking a bite. And you would have left to it to that, one bite, unless Oswald had shoved the whole thing in your mouth.

His lips parted as your lips closed around his thumb, running along its tip as he pulled his hand away. His eyes were dark, lids fallen as heavy hoods over them.

He leaned in, cupping your cheek. “Love. . .”

“You said we could keep things professional,” you whispered. He was close, so close you could smell his breath, sweet with wine and warm on your skin.

“I know, I know. . . But I don’t think I can,” Oswald murmured, his eyes dark and bright with arousal.


	21. Lust in firelight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald has feelings for you.  
> You're tipsy and in the need of physical contact.

Oswald’s gaze was intense, his hand warm on your cheek.

“You’re my boss,” you told, getting lost into the deep pools of his darkened eyes. “We-we have to keep things professional—”

Oswald silenced you with a kiss. His lips were warm against yours, gentle. His fingers slipped into your damp hair as he made the kiss go deeper, slightly more forceful. His other hand had founds it way around you, to the small of your back, pulling you closer.

You did your best not kiss him back, knowing you shouldn’t encourage him, but Oswald’s mere kissing style had made you fail royally in your task. He was nibbling your mouth, your upper lip, then your lower, constantly moving, constantly forcing you to respond.

“Stop it, Oswald. This is a very bad idea,” you whispered meekly as the Penguin shifted to breathe, rubbing his nose against yours while swallowing your words with soft tiny kissed. Your hand rested against his chest, the other on his hip, but they weren’t there to push him away.

You hoped your voice would have been stronger. Your arguments firmer, but then again, perhaps your will to reject his advantages wasn’t that strong, either.

“Don’t tell me you don’t want this. . .” Oswald murmured against your lips. He was breathing fast. 

“Don’t tell me there isn’t a pull between us, love. . .”

He kissed you again, silencing your response. A response you knew would have been a lie. . .

“Y-you’ll grow tired of me and fire me. I need to have a job,” you continued between the kisses, slightly shaking your head. “You only think you want this, because of the roles I played.”

“I would never grow tired of you, love,” the Penguin groaned. You could feel him, his body squirming against yours in his building arousal. His hands roamed your sides and back, unable to decide where he wanted to touch you the most. It almost felt like he wanted to consume you, make you two melt together as one. . .

You moaned, mostly against your will. Your neck arched, giving Oswald access to your sweet spot, right below your right ear. Your arms had found their way around Oswald’s neck.

“Oswald, don’t. . . This is. . . I-I should leave. I should go home.” 

“No. I told you, love: I’m not going to let you spend the night alone. . .”

“Shit!” You cried out, nearly smacking your forehead as the heat of the moment melted away in a blink of an eye. Your apartment wasn’t empty. You had forgotten Jervis! You had promised to come home before leaving for the Lounge. . .

Oswald seemed slightly startled by your sudden outburst, letting you go. 

“Love?”

“I completely forgot Jervis! He’s alone in my apartment. . .”

“Jervis?” Oswald asked, frowning. There was a touch of jealousy in his voice.

“Jervis. Jervis Tetch. The Hatter. He wandered in sick, so I had to let him stay. I promised to return home before leaving for work. . . He’s been alone for hours. . .” you told, for some reason feeling obliged to explain the situation.

“Love, if there is one person in Gotham, besides Eddie of course, that you should stay away from, that’s Jervis. With your name and hair. . .”

“He has already arranged me plenty of trouble, but he isn’t a bad person. I had to help him.”

Oswald sighed sourly. “Yes, my Dove. Always seeing the good in everyone.” And this time, the expression didn’t sound as positive as it had used to.

“Love, I went to your apartment. No one came to the door. If Jervis had been in there, he would have come to open, he knows my voice,” the Penguin added. He had turned towards the table to pour himself a drink.

“Not if he’s too sick to get out of bed.” _Or dead. . ._

“Well, love. . . I could send a guy to check it out, whether he still _is_ in your apartment. But I still think you should stay here. The police never caught Eddie —if you went back to your apartment, you could be in danger. You’re safe here: I have guards stationed around the house and Eddie doesn’t know you’re with me. If he comes after you again, your apartment will be the first place he’ll look for you.”

You hesitated, weighting your options. It was possible Jervis had wandered off, but it was just as likely he was still lying on your bed, in fever and unconscious. And of course, there was the matter with Eddie. . .

 _If Nightwing hadn’t come to rescue me just then, would he have let me go?_ you wondered, staring into the fire. _Was I even buried all that deep? There were no sounds of digging before the lid flung open, was there?_

You couldn’t remember and it bothered you.

Perhaps you. . . were too forgiving towards Eddie. He had pulled a gun at you, twice. He had humiliated you, used you as a hostage, buried you alive. . . What reason did you have to forgive him?

 _Do I just want to fuck him so badly?_ you asked yourself. _Do I want him just because he’s . . . the Riddler? Because he was funny, playful. . . the object of most of my sexual fantasies? But was there really any other reason for us, to. . . be together?_

You couldn’t think of one. Not at the moment, at least. There was no sane reason.

Oswald looked at you with mild concern in his eyes. “Are you all right, love? You’re shivering. . .”

You nodded weakly; suddenly very sad and aware of just how awful and tired you felt.

“I am fine, just tired, I think. I was numb before, but now. . .”

“Your shock is wearing off,” Oswald observed. “Would you like another drink? It should help you settle.”

“Wine, please. I shouldn’t have had that first whiskey at all. It was scotch, not bourbon and I’m allergic to wheat based gluten. I’m going to be so itchy tomorrow. . .”

“I have Russian potato vodka,” the Penguin offered, “if you wish to have something stronger.”

“Please.”

You did need a drink. Something to wipe away the horrors of the day. And your. . . heart ache?

Oswald limped back soon enough with a bottle, pouring you a sturdy drink.

“Here you go, love. This ought to help you to get sleep,” he told handing you the glass, reclaiming his seat right next to you.

You sipped your drink in silence, marveling at its soft taste. This drink was treacherous. You would get drunk, if you weren’t careful.

“You’re still shivering. . .”

“I am cold,” you told, not entirely honest. You just. . . needed some closeness. It was a sudden urge. A craving, to which Oswald obliged gladly by raising his arm on the back of the couch, inviting you to shift closer.

You did, pressing against his warm side, making a sound as you leaned your shoulder on him, the one which had taken the tranq-dart.

“Are you okay, love?”

You nodded, rubbing your shoulder. “Yes. Just sore. Eddie shot me with horse tranquilizer before putting me in that coffin.”

“May I see?”

You nodded again, letting Oswald to take your glass and put it on the table.

He turned back at you, slowly slipping the robe off your shoulder. He made a disapproving noise and you could very well understand why. The bruise looked bad, as you had already noticed while taking a bath. It was black and blue and had begun to go yellow on the edges.

“Well, love. . . it certainly does look sore,” Oswald murmured, slipping the strap of your borrowed nightgown down as well, starting to fondle the bruise gently with the tip of his thumb. His other fingers had wrapped around your arm, warm but firm. Gentle.

You had begun to breathe slightly faster, you noticed, your bosom rising and falling beneath the thin fabric. Your nipples were hard, pressing against the satin, perking visibly through.

You had always found Oswald. . . attractive in a way. Old-fashionedly charming. —And you had seen the way he looked at you. —And liked it.

You had caught him, watching you at the Lounge with lust in his darkened eyes. And it had never made you uncomfortable, not in a way it should have, at least.

Oswald’s lust was never filthy. It was longing, twinkling in his eyes as a gentle suggestion. A suggestion of what all there could be between the two of you, if you’d only let it happen. It was an offer of companionship —and pleasure. . .

Your craving for closeness got worse just then, slipping far past the simple need to be held.

Oswald must have sensed it as well, for he stilled, nailing his darkened eyes to yours.

“Let me touch you, love. Please. . .”

“I want you to touch me,” you breathed, slipping down the other strap, exposing your breasts for him.

Oswald gasped softly, pressing his mouth on yours. And this time, there was nothing persuasive about his kiss. It was purely passion.

His hand cupped your breast, weighting it, before starting to slowly massage full circles. He caught your hardened nipple between his fingers, stretching it just enough to make you moan. To make you ache for more.

“Oh, love. . .” Oswald breathed while kissing you, looking deep in your eyes before he leaned in to swirl his tongue around your other nipple, before taking it in his mouth.

You gasped, biting your lip as your neck arched in pleasure. This was exactly what you needed. Closeness. Pleasure. Safety. . .

Oswald sucked your nipple for quite a while, till he pulled away to kiss you again.

“Sit on your knees love, then spread them for me,” he whispered in your ear, hand caressing the small of your back.

You did as you were told, sitting on the couch, fully facing Oswald.

He kissed your neck, while slipping his hand between your legs, guiding his middle finger along your slit, stroking both, your clit and opening in turn. With the rest of his fingers he fondled your lower lips, making your jerk in pleasure.

“Faster Oswald, make me cum,” you moaned as Oswald moved his fingers torturously slow, making you squirm with your eyes closed, trying to get closer to your pleasure.

“Hush, love. . . There is no rush, we have the entire night,” Oswald murmured, adding slightly pressure on your clit, making your jerk again with a moan. You had begun to rock yourself against his hand, demanding firmer contact. And Oswald granted it to you, massaging your clit with each back and forth movement of his fingers.

You had your orgasm as he kissed you, moaning in his mouth as your thighs clenched under you, pushing you forward as Oswald slipped his fingers in your wet cunt, pumping back and forth, adding your pleasure, making your eyes roll back in your head as your whole body convulsed, your hands squeezing his shoulders for support. You liked what he did, liked the fact that he could feel your pleasure, your silky walls, tightening around his fingers in despaired attempt to milk cum out of them.

You were shivering as you eased yourself back to normal sitting position, the intensity of your pleasure still burning hot on your muscles. You were still aching, though. Aching for his cock. Your entrance felt tight and hot, begging to be filled. . .

“That’s very good, love,” Oswald murmured, kissing down your jaw. “We’re getting warmed up.”

You were pleased to hear that —and willing to return the favor.

“Let me,” you whispered, pushing Oswald back, running your hand down his chest and belly, slowly starting to undo the buttons of his waistcoat. You could hear him swallow. He was breathing fast, raggedly, full of anticipation.

“Love. . .”

“Hush. . . it’s fine. You’re perfect,” you whispered, running your palm over Oswald’s middle. He was soft, but firm. He might have even been toned in his younger days. And now. . . it was nothing that couldn’t have been passed away as holiday weight.

“Let me take care of you,” you murmured, undoing the buttons of his shirt, then moving to pull down his zipper and boxers.

You gasped softly as you released his erection, delighted. Oswald may have been average in length, but he definitely was girthy.

You wet your lips briefly, before leaning in, taking his cock in your mouth. You swirled your tongue around the tip, tasting the brief saltiness of his pre-cum, before taking him deeper in your mouth.

Oswald leaned his head back, his hand had found its way in your hair.

“Oh god. . . love. . .”

You smiled smugly to yourself, starting to move your head up and down, moving your hand along the parts which you couldn’t take in without gagging.

“T-take it easy, love; You’re going to make me cum too soon,” Oswald panted, his fingers tightening in your hair. By the sound of his voice, you could tell he was gritting his teeth.

You only hummed as a response, squeezing him tighter with your lips. It was nice to know you could have a rich and powerful man such as Oswald at your mercy, if you so whished. . .

***

Edward Nigma was making his way along the side alleys. The darkness hid him well from most watchful eyes, but not all of them. He knew he had to be careful: Not only was the police looking for him, but Batman as well. And most likely that brat of a Nightwing, too.

He had ruined everything. Everything!

Eddie touched the back of his head briefly, winching as his fingers met a sore lump. There was possibly a wound as well, not bad, but painful. He needed a mirror to be sure.

The sound of sirens got closer and so Eddie stilled, pressing flat against the wall. A police car passed the alley, its light flashing red and blue. It was going fast, so at least this team wasn’t looking for him.

He stopped again as he got closer to his destination, considering.

Was this a wise plan, after all? The Minx had said the sweetest of things —most flattering things; and if Ryder had actually made up the whole thing. . . But then again, she might just have said those things to get out of trouble.

Eddie frowned, rubbing his face. His glasses had broken during Nightwing’s surprise attack and so he had left them behind. He would have to get new ones, at some point.

He could carry on with his plan, if nothing else, to see what would happen. He had already forgiven the Minx, or he would after they talked, so why wouldn’t she forgive him as well? After all, she had never been in any danger. . .

Eddie’s thought were interrupted by a sound from the alley, and soon, a shadow appeared before him.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Eddie asked, taking a step forward.

***

Oswald was a gentle lover, you came to notice, as he kissed his way down your neck, all the way down to your bruised shoulder. His hand rested upon your naked breast, massaging slowly.

You two had moved your fun upstairs —his room, to be exact. It was nice there, very Oswald, as the decoration was in the rest of the house. The bed was large and had four posts.

“Oh, love. . . you can’t even know how long I’ve wanted this. . .” the Penguin murmured in your ear, nibbling your sensitive spot. “I’ve been thinking about it, since the day I saw you, about what it would be like —to have you, in my bed. . .”

“Then what are you waiting for, Oswald?” you murmured in return, running your hands down his sides to wrap your fingers around his cock. “I have a coil, no need to be shy. . .”

The Penguin gasped sharply at your words and you could feel him shiver under your touch. His reaction was . . . flattering.

You gasped softly as he guided his cock at your entrance, thrusting.

Oswald made a sound as well, something that was somewhere between a moan and a delighter whimper.

You both stayed still for a while, getting used to each other. Then, Oswald begun to move.

His thrusts were slow and deep. Gentle, respectful. Loving. —And he filled you up nicely, making your walls tighten around his length.

“Oh, love. . . You’re perfect, just perfect,” Oswald murmured, eagerly claiming your mouth. He seemed to enjoy kissing, during the act. Enough so, to keep his eyes closed.

You kissed him back, sinking your fingers in his hair.

“Harder, Oswald,” you murmured, smirking against his lips.

***

It was almost morning, when Bruce returned to the batcave. He had been out all night, gliding over Gotham, making his way from rooftop to rooftop.

His mind was clear now. He would have to investigate the Nigma case more, find out exactly how personal and deep connection Liz had with the villain. And if there was a connection, deeper beyond childish infatuation. . . well. He had two options in total. One, if the first one would fail.

“You were gone whole night,” Dick observed, as he landed on a platform. It appeared Alfred had taken good care of his former ward, as he sat at the computer, wearing clean clothes with a cup of coffee in his hand and an empty plate before him.

“I was. I have come to a decision and need your help. I have decided to make Liz my new Robin,” Bruce told, taking off his mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My, my. Oswald got to go in with a bare.  
> Go Pengy! 
> 
> I've been thinking, what if I actually did 50shades to this story?  
> Altered the names and the world and turned it into a book?  
> Would you people be interested in reading it?  
> Or is this a stupid idea?
> 
> It is. Isn't it?
> 
> ... I'll be quiet now...


	22. The loss of everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald thinks you're exclusive.   
> He likes to make it known.

You woke up in Oswald’s bed, feeling the Penguin’s arm around you. His hand rested upon your breast, cupping it in gentle embrace. He was spooning you, beneath your shared cover.

You stretched against the fine satin sheets, smiling as you felt Oswald nuzzle your neck, settling closer to your body.

“Hmm, love. . . Don’t get up yet. . .” His mutter may have been sleepy, but you knew the Penguin was very much awake. His hand left your breast, sliding down your body to settle between your legs to stroke your moist slit.

You gasped softly, your neck arching in pleasure. The gesture gave the Penguin perfect access to plant a trail of kisses on your neck and shoulder while he pressed his hips gently against your backside. He was getting hard.

“Don’t stop, Oswald,” you murmured, starting to rock your hips against his hand. His fingers ran on both sides of your clit, making your toes curl.

“I wasn’t planning to, love,” Oswald hummed, rubbing his nose against the back of your neck. His hips bucked softly against your backside with the rhythm of your squirming.

Oswald turned you on your back, slowly kissing you while spreading your legs with his knee.

There was a knock on the door.

“Mr. Penguin, you’re needed on the phone,” Olga’s thick East European accent called.

“Whatever it is, it can wait!” Oswald growled over his shoulder, he smiled at you, leaning in to another kiss.

“It would be the police, Mr. Penguin. They want to talk to you and ask about the girl.”

Oswald stilled, looking at you with mild worry and frustration.

“I think that girl would be you, love. I think I have to take that call,” he told, getting off the bed, pulling on a purple robe before disappearing downstairs.

You shifted awkwardly, pulling your knees up. The warm fuzzy feeling you had woken up with was gone and replaced with . . . uncertainty.

You had slept with your boss, the very thing you had vowed not to do. You had no regrets, the night had been wonderful and Oswald made you feel good, but still. . .

 _But is there a problem, really?_ You thought, allowing your eyes to travel around the room.

Oswald may have been your boss, but you weren’t dating anyone else. Whatever there had been with Eddie had been buried when he buried you. And Oswald wasn’t an ex-Arkham patient. He had been in Blackgate, yes, but he owned a legal business. A well earning business, that was.

Your job was to be is arm-candy, peek at the cards and pretend you were interested in him, so would dating him be any different, except it would make the thing . . . real?

Oswald limped his way back in the room, waking you from your thoughts. There was a slight frown at his brow.

“I think we should get dressed, love. The GCPD wants to meet you at your apartment, but they refused to tell me why. They called me because they couldn’t reach you.”

“I don’t know where my phone is,” you confessed. Eddie had probably taken it. You’d have to buy a new one. . .

***

The sight at your apartment wasn’t what you had expected. You had expected to see a police car, maybe Jim Gordon himself, but not four police cars, a fire truck and a bunch of reporters behind the secured area. 

“What is. . . going on here?” you asked from the nearby police, who told you to wait till Gordon would get to you.

He arrived soon enough, looking rugged and extremely tired.

“Miss Pennyworth, Cobblepot,” he muttered, acknowledging the Penguin with short nod, though you could tell he wasn’t glad of his presence.

“What happened here?” you asked again, looking around in dismay.

“I hoped you’d tell me. There was fire in your apartment last night—”

“Fire!” you nearly cried out, your eyes widening. You glanced at Oswald by your side. He looked back at you, probably thinking about the same thing you were.

“W-was anyone hurt in the fire?” you asked carefully, thinking of Jervis. If there was a body of an insane criminal in your apartment, burned to crisp. . . There was probably no way you could talk yourself out of this, unless you told he must have broken in and started the fire.

That made you think: Had he started the fire?

“The fire didn’t spread outside your apartment and the building was evacuated on time, so thankfully no one was hurt. Do you know how the fire could have started?”

“I have no idea,” you told, shrugging and shaking your head.

You didn’t dare start making any stories. Not while you didn’t know what the police knew.

“Was it Nigma?” Oswald cut in, wrapping his arm around you. The gesture made Gordon raise his brows briefly.

“What makes you think it would have been Nigma?”

“Well,” Oswald spoke, rolling his eyes with a stiff faked smile, “He buried her alive, just last night.”

“I don’t think it was E— Nigma,” you corrected yourself hesitantly. “What motive he would have had?”

“Killing you, love.” Oswald pointed out. “He called me, remember? He was quite persistently trying to get your address.”

“But he. . .” You didn’t know how to finish the sentence, while Gordon was watching you. Oz had made revelations about your relationship to Nigma you wished he hadn’t.

But one thing you were certain of: Eddie wouldn’t have had to call Oz to get your address. He had tracked your phone, he knew where you lived. Hell, he had even known when you had gone at the Wayne manor. So why would he have called Oswald?

“He could have killed me earlier that night, but he used a tranq-dart instead. I think he only wanted to use me to blackmail money from Bruce,” you told quickly.

Gordon nodded slowly, his expression grim. “Do you know anyone else, who might have burned down your apartment? Someone who has something against you?”

“You suspect arson?” you asked, feeling Oswald tighten his grip on your waist.

“Yes. The fire didn’t start itself. It was arson,” Gordon admitted.

You considered for a while, shaking your head.

Gordon sighed, correcting his posture. “I am asking this once, Miss. Do you know any reason why Harleen Quinzel might have wanted to burn down your apartment? Batman caught her last night, after she had coated your walls and furniture with gasoline and thrown in a match. She had a voice synthesizer with her. Batman said he had lost it.”

“C-could it have been Harley, who called you?” you asked, looking at Oswald. Had the Joker told her?

“Well, to think about it, the expressions sounded a bit . . . unlike Eddie. The word choices were. . . quite simple,” Oswald said after thinking for a while.

“How bad was the fire?” you asked turning your gaze back to Gordon. You wondered how many furniture you’d have to replace.

“I am afraid the whole apartment is destroyed. I suggest you contact your insurance company and landlord.”

“Fuuuuck,” you breathed out, raising hands into your hair, walking agitated back and forth.

All your belonging were gone. All the furniture, clothes, TV. . . almost 4000$ of cash you had earned while working at the Lounge.

“Amber!”

You turned around with the sound of your name, seeing Bruce jogging towards you. Alfred followed at his heels.

_Oh shit. Fucking fuck. Not him. Not now. . ._

“Amber I heard what happened, are you all right?!” Bruce asked, taking your hands into his. He seemed to have completely ignored Oswald, who was standing next to you with extremely sour expression on his face.

“I’m fine, Bruce. . . Uncle. Just a little shaken. I. . . we should talk about the insurance,” you told your uncle, brushing hair behind your ear. Uncle Alfred was the one who paid it. You had meant to start paying it yourself, soon after getting independent with your rent.

“We shall talk about it soon,” Alfred promised. “Liz. . . I am glad to see you’re all right.”

You nodded weakly, shuddering in the cold October air.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to do . . . where I’m going to live. . .” you murmured, realizing your bank card was gone as well. You had had it with you, until Eddie had shot you with horse tranquilizer.

_Either my whole wallet is gone as well, or Eddie has it._

“You weren’t at the GCPD last night,” Bruce observed gently, looking at you under his brow. “I tried to call you, but you didn’t answer your phone. I was very worried. . .”

“Oh, that was completely unnecessary,” Oswald told with a bright smile, placing his hand back on your waist, pulling you closer. Close enough, so Bruce had to let go of your hands.

“She was with me last night. I saw it best to look after her, after picking up from the GCPD. She was perfectly safe and sound. I took _very_ good care of her,” Oswald added, making sure his tone had . . . certain suggestion in it.

You wished you could have buried your face in your hands and just disappeared, with the look your uncle gave you. . .

Bruce however, was the worse of the two.

“I appreciate you taking care of her, Mr. Cobblepot,” the billionaire spoke, icier than you had ever heard him speak before, offering you his hand, “But it is better Liz stays with me for now, until she finds a new place to live in.”

“Hm, I think she prefers to stay with me, don’t you, love? —And she can stay as long as she likes,” the Penguin told, cupping your cheek to steal a swift but slow kiss, before turning his eyes back on Bruce. His gaze was bright, his smile triumphant.

“Liz. . .” Bruce murmured quietly. His expression was a mix of disbelief, disapproval and rage.

“I can date whomever I want, Bruce. . .” you told quietly, nervously fingering the fuzzy sleeve of your sweater. You couldn’t meet his gaze. Or your uncle’s.

“There, we have it,” Oswald told cheerily. “Come now, love. I am sure the police will contact you, if they wish to speak of something more. You can reach her from my number.”

As Gordon nodded, you departed, allowing Oswald to escort you back to his car. You did not turn to look at Bruce over your shoulder, but you could guess his hands were glanced into tight fists.

“I will try to find a new apartment soon,” you told Oswald as you were in the car, comfortably seated side by side on the back seat. You would also have to contact your uncle and talk the insurance things through. That was, if he eve3n cared to hear your voice anymore. . .

“You’re in no rush, love. Like I told, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like,” the Penguin told fondly, placing his hand on your knee. You could feel his thumb, slowly starting to stroke the sensitive skin of your thigh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, at least: The long waited chapter 22.   
> Also, gonna post the pilot chapter of the book with title xx.   
> Check it out and tell me what you think.


	23. The generous provider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oswald is generous.  
> You're getting used to the idea of living under his roof.

“I am serious, Oswald. I need to get clothes, a new phone. I have nothing!”

“And I said I will provide everything, my Dove,” Oswald told, tapping your knee with a soft smile. His tone might have sounded innocent, but you knew the situation was heading towards the disaster you had wanted to avoid.

Sleeping with your boss had been bad enough, allowing him to become your sugar-daddy was out of the question.

_Fuck Eddie_ _—_ _and fuck Harley for causing all this shit._

At least the Bat had gotten her, you assumed, and delivered her to Arkham. That was one less thing to worry about. . .

“I-I need to visit the bank, explain the situation and ask for new bankcard and needed documents. Tell your driver to turn back,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair. You were heading away from down town, back toward Oswald’s manor.

“There is no need to rush, love. Like I said; I will provide you,” the Penguin repeated, persistently. “You will lack for nothing, I assure you.”

“Oswald, I don’t want you to,” you told gently, placing your hand on his as you turned to look at him. “I. . . I need my independence. I could not dream of living beneath your roof any longer than necessary. I do not want to _use you_ ,” you added, deciding it would be better to give him the impression you liked him, but didn’t want him to get too involved. Which was very much the truth.

“Oh, you’re not using me, love. I would be pleased to offer you a place to sleep in, till you get back on your feet,” Oswald told, smiling. His smile. . . could have been less satisfied. 

“Besides,” the Penguin continued, leaning closer, “I think we both rather enjoyed sleeping within the same bed. . .”

His words made you blush, a thing that did not happen to you often. It may have been because he was older —and very charming, or because he was holding your hand, planting a kiss upon your knuckles while looking at you under his brow.

_Damn that persuasive charm and elegance!_

“Yes, I liked it,” you admitted after a while, unable not to smile. “Still, I would be more comfortable if I had an apartment of my own. I am not ready to share a house with anyone.”

“Whatever you say, love,” Oswald sighed, rubbing your knuckles. You could tell he had had other plans in mind. . .

***

“This makes things complicated,” Bruce sighed, rubbing his face.

“Mr. Cobblepot seemed rather taken with her, sir,” Alfred agreed. “And she lives currently under his roof, if I am not mistaken.”

“That’s the worst part of it,” Bruce muttered. “She lives in his house, goes to work in his car, is with him at the Iceberg Lounge. . .”

“I guess making her another Robin seems currently next to impossible,” Dick cut in, his arms crossed over his chest.

Alfred glanced at Bruce, lifting his brows. “Another Robin, sir?”

“I would keep her close, Alfred, away from the dangerous situations and criminals,” Bruce defended.

“In Gotham?” Dick humphed, drily amused. “You can get shot here while buying a magazine.”

“We need to get her away from the criminals,” insisted Bruce. “Making her Robin is the best way. I need you to stalk her, Dick. Find out if she’s ever alone. If you catch her alone. . . talk to her.”

“I could go to the Lounge tonight as myself and talk to her.”

Bruce frowned, his expression sour. “Cobblepot wouldn’t let you near her. Stalk her, wait till she’s alone and knock her out. Then bring her to the batcave and I’ll talk to her. . .”

***

“Your mother had impressive wardrobe,” you observed politely, gazing at the selection of numerous gowns and dresses, hanging in the huge closet.

“They’re all yours now,” Oswald told brightly. “I am sure some will require modification, but that is what we have Olga for. Go on, try something on, love.”

You hesitated, running your fingers on the fine fabrics. Most of the dresses were slightly old fashioned, yet very lovely.

“Your mother did not prefer to wear jeans, I suppose,” you said, trying to make it sound humorous. Prancing around in an evening dress or anything similar all day long would be. . . something you hadn’t gotten used to.

Oswald shook his head, taking a seat on the bed. “She didn’t I’m afraid. Mother was a very classy woman, slightly old fashioned. Her dresses will look lovely on you, my Dove.”

You selected a glittery champagne colored evening gown, wondering if this was just one of Oswald’s games to get out of your clothes.

“There’s a white silk scarf to go with it,” he told, his voice slightly hoarse.

You took the scarf as well, hesitating. All the previous dressed he had gifted you with, you had tried on alone, but now. . . Well, he had already seen you last night. Going to another room would have been odd and so, you started to pull off your fluffy sweater and jeans, the only own clothes you had left.

You could hear Oswald’s breath quicken as he observed you, taking in the sight of your black lace underwear. He hadn’t seen them yet, for you had worn nothing under the nightgown.

You were just about the slip the dress on, when Oswald stopped you.

“Wait. There’s some jewelry on the dresser. Try the pearls on, love. Please.”

Slightly surprised, you went to the dresses and did as he asked. The pearls were long and white, cool against your skin.

“Pin your hair up,” the Penguin spoke, and this time, it sounded like a command.

 _We’re playing dress up now?_ you thought, using the pins to put your hair up, as well as you could. A few strands flew loose, framing your face as gentle curls.

You turned to look at him, arching a questioning brow.

Oswald was breathing even faster now, more shallowly. His eyes were dark. —Just looking at him was enough to make you aroused. 

_There’s no actual harm in sleeping with him again, is there?_ you reasoned. _I date him now. That’s what I told to Bruce._

And the thought felt oddly good. You were dating him and currently living under his roof. It was only the matter of time till you’d fuck again. Though with Oswald, it wasn’t fucking. It was making love. And that, felt good too. Classy.

You had thought about it, actually. Of what it would be like, during your stay. Would you two share a room, or would Oswald continue to treat you as a guest and have you sleep in your own room. Would he sneak in during the night, to have his way with you? Or would you become horny enough to sneak into his?

 _But then again, I am horny now,_ you thought with a small cat-like smile, making your way to Oswald.

He reached for you as you were close enough, placing his hands on your hips. His breaths were quick and shallow, almost panting.

“Oh, love. . .”

“Do you want me to take care of you, Oswald?” you murmured, leaning in to rub your nose against his. Your hand had found its way on his chest, taking a journey down to cup the bulge in his pants. He was already rock solid.

The Penguin claimed your mouth, suddenly, forcefully. With passion he had not yet shown you before. His hands were greedy on your body, taking a journey on your sides and back.

You whimpered softly into the kiss, not as much in pain as you did in arousal, as Oswald pulled you on top of him, his fingers rough on your body.

“Take it easy, Oswald,” you murmured, soon silenced by yet another forceful kiss as he spun you under, kicking his shoes off with a small hiss of pain.

His adept fingers soon opened your bras, moving down to slip off your black lace panties.

“Oh god, love. . .”

He stayed still for a moment, collecting himself. His eyes were dark, scanning your body, your feverishly flushed cheeks, your bare breasts, the nasty bruise at your shoulder. 

He leaned in, to plant a kiss there, the brush his lips gently against the blackened sore flesh.

He trailed his fingers along the pearls, resting between your breasts, taking in your face, your expression. His lips were parted, his hand trembling.

He undid his zipper in the matter of seconds, thrusting into you with force that made you gasp in surprise as you wrapped your arms around his neck, sinking your fingers in his hair.

“Oswald!”

He moaned as a response, leaning in to an open mouthed kiss.

His tongue was hot in your mouth, his fingers a rough cage around your wrists.

His thrusts were deep and swift, urgent. His eyes closed in concentration below his dark brows, knit together in slight frown.

“Yes,” you whispered, wrapping your legs around his waist, to slow him down a little. To make him last a little longer. This was something Oswald obviously needed.

“Yes. . . yes. . . keep doing that. . .”

Oswald came with a groan, partly collapsing on top you. You could feel it, his cum spilling inside of you. It had been too soon, but you weren’t mad.

“I am sorry, love. . . I didn’t hurt you, did I? I don’t know what got into me,” the Penguin panted, slicking his hair back. His brow was slightly dampened by sweat.

You shook your head, breathing fast while cupping his cheek. “No. I’m fine. You?”

“I was early. . .” Oswald breathed out, mildly frustrated, till a soft smirk appeared on his face.

“We ought to fix your situation,” he murmured, slipping a hand between your legs, stroking your clit with his thumb while fucking you with two fingers. . .

***

Jonathan Crane was least to say disappointed, as he looked at the blackened door behind the yellow GCPD tapes.

“This is the right address,” he murmured aloud, pushing the glasses better on his nose.

 _“We ought not to linger here long, Jonny-boy,”_ Scarecrow rasped. _“Sweetheart’s not home, I say we go someplace else.”_

“She’s not dead, it would have been in the news.”

_“And what did you have in mind, Jonny? That we look for her around Gotham and wait the Bat to catch us? They’ve notified him of our escape by now. I say we disappear underground, wait till the time is proper. Halloween is coming, Jonny-Boy. We go out then, hunt and play. We will teach Gotham the meaning of **fear!** ”_

“She’s been involved with Edward before. We should go to his place.”

_“You plan on sharing her, Jonny? The girl who likes fear?”_

“Sharing her?”

The Scarecrow cackled at his words. _“You’re getting blind, Jonny-Boy. The leprechaun is sweet on her, haven’t you noticed. The Eddie I know would have disposed her in a blink of an eye, or left, when the little twat hypnotized her. No, Jonny. . . we won’t go to him. We won’t share her. You promised me, we’ll make her scream in fear_ _—_ _and arousal. . .”_

“I want to get to know her. All of her. We won’t use a full dose.”

Scarecrow huffed at his words. _“You’re getting soft, Jonny. This one won’t scream easily.”_

Jonathan’s full lips quirked up slightly, as he pushed hands into his pockets.

“Slowly creeping fear is better for her. For us. It’ll last longer. She’ll welcome it. Like it. . .”

 _“So it’ll be the arousal before the fear, eh, Jonny? I can live with that,”_ the Scarecrow laughed drily, amused.

And so, Jonathan Crane cleared his throat, turned on his heels and made his way to the nightly streets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something came up that'll be taking my time.  
> I probably won't be able to update as often as usually.  
> I try my best to find time for writing, but I give no promises.  
> Next updates might take from weeks to months. 
> 
> If you're bored start the series over or read these:  
> https://www.amazon.com/TER-DREGOS-Defiers-Mages-Mistwall/dp/1691611034  
> https://www.amazon.com/TER-DREGOS-Defiers-Book-Pathfinders/dp/B0884B4762


	24. Starting over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You're in luck and manage purchase an apartment.  
> Your luck doesn't last much longer, though. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aye! A new chapter!  
> I'm still pretty busy, so the next one will also take a while to update. 
> 
> Also, still planning to turn this into a book.

You stared at the screen of your new phone, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. Your mind felt foggy, yet your mouth was curving into a bright enthusiastic smile.

"One hundred and twenty thousand dollars,” you murmured, gazing at Oswald over your phone.

He raised his glass at you, with a bitter smile. “Congratulations, love. Now you can afford to buy yourself a flat, if you wish. Who would have guessed people actually win from those things. . .”

“You don’t do the lottery?” you asked, your stupid grin widening as the information started to settle into your head. You had won a lot of money!

You chuckled to yourself. _Four villains in one week._ You had bought the lottery ticked soon after meeting Crane and forgotten all about it with Joker as your guest, Jervis appearing out of nowhere and with the whole mess with Eddie. . . But you had won. And your rental problems were officially over. Like Oswald had pointed out, you could afford to by an apartment now. Not a very good or fine one and definitely not from down town, but you could get one. And furnish it even!

“No. The probability of winning anything is too small. I have my club and poker nights. They provide me just nicely,” Oswald told, sipping his wine.

His expression made you wonder whether he regretted buying you the phone.

“I can pay this back to you now,” you told with an awkward smile, making a gesture with the smart phone.

Oswald shook his head. “I told you love; no need.” He sighed deeply. “I suppose you start looking for an apartment soon?”

“Well, I was hoping to move before Halloween. . .”

Oswald sighed again, even deeper this time. He placed his glass on the table, softly limping his way to you. “Halloween’s a few days off. . . What’s the rush, love? Aren’t you comfortable here? Wouldn’t you rather save your money and live here with me?”

“I told you, I like my independence. Besides, don’t you think it would be fun; you coming over to my place for a change?” you asked, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Love, you won roughly a hundred thousand, not millions. If you seek excitement, there are many rooms at the Lounge, or even in this house. . .”

“You’re already willing to explore other rooms, beside the bedroom?” you purred in his ear, letting your hands slip down to Oswald’s waist. Despite the freshness of your flourishing relationship, you had learned to handle him, or so you thought. . .

“Wouldn’t you like to save your winnings, love? Invest them, even? With my help you could soon double the sum. You could live right here, under my roof. My driver is at your disposal, Olga is yours to order around. . . What’s so bad being under the umbrella?”

You smile melted slowly away, making you gaze seriously at Oswald. For once, he did not smile, either.

“I already told you, Oswald. I like my independence. I am not ready to move in.”

The Penguin stepped back, raising his hands in the air. The smile was back on his face, stiff as it was. “Fine. Fine. Whatever you say, my little Dove. . . Actually now that I think about it, I might know an apartment within your price range. . . ”

***

Dick was looking at Bruce, arms crossed over his chest. He was leaning against the wall of the Batcave, watching his former mentor.

Bruce had gotten a more rugged look, with a touch of stubble at his jaw and dark shadows resting under his eyes. He hadn’t been out, not as Batman and not partying, yet it was obvious he hadn’t slept for a couple of nights.

“No luck yet. They go to the Lounge together in Cobblepot’s car and leave the same way. Other than that, they stay within in his manor. There are guards stationed outside. Either Cobblepot wants to keep people out, or Liz in.”

“She’s not his prisoner,” Bruce rasped, glancing at Alfred who made his way out of the elevator, a tray in hand.

“I brought you coffee, Master Bruce, though I hope you would enjoy it upstairs. Sleep a little perhaps.”

Bruce ignored his butler, as if he had not heard him. “First Nigma, now Cobblepot. . . What is she thinking . .?”

“I could call her, ask her to meet up and have a talk with her.”

“You will not approach her as yourself,” Bruce snapped. He was still staring at the screen of the batcomputer. It was on screen saver. A small bat, flying from corner to another.

“You ought to eat, Master Bruce. You have been skipping your meals. . .”

“Then you call her!” snapped Dick. “Ask her what the hell she’s doing. Why she’s sleeping with Nigma and Cobblepot and who knows who else?!”

“There’s no proof she’s sleeping with Cobblepot, or Nigma. . .”

“Master Bruce. . .”

“No proof?! You heard the conversation she had with the Riddler? She was practically begging for his cock —And sure, she’s dating Penguin just to have milk and cookies in his manor! Wake up, Bruce, you just don’t want to see it!”

“Master Bruce! If you won’t listen to me I cannot tell you Liz called me a while ago, telling she has bought an apartment for herself.”

Bruce and Dick stilled, their eyes sharply on Alfred.

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier!” Bruce exclaimed, rising. The look Alfred gave him made him sit back down, however.

“You will eat now, Master Bruce, and while you’re at it I will tell you everything. One cannot live by coffee alone, not even you. . .”

***

You stood in the living room of your new apartment, watching Oswald’s men carry in your just purchased furniture. Oswald was with you, his arm tightly around your waist. His long fingers rested upon your hip, his thumb fondling the curve your waist ever so briefly.

“I still can’t believe this is mine. . . Thank you again, Oswald,” you told, smiling as widely as the Joker. Two rooms and a bathroom in an apartment that wasn’t in the Narrows. . . You just couldn’t be happier. And it was slightly larger than your rental one had been. As a bonus, it was rather close at the Lounge, just four blocks from it.

“It sure is cozy, love,” Oswald replied, making it obvious he meant ‘small’. Yet, he wasn’t quite as sour as you had expected him to be.

You didn’t mind his slight snarkiness. An apartment was an apartment and not everyone could buy one at your age. Least of all in Gotham.

“The men should be finished with the furniture within an hour, then we can head home,” the Penguin continued, glancing at a goon, carrying in a large box, containing your just purchased plates, glasses and cutlery. You’d still have to hit the grocery store later, but at least you’d have everything you needed inside the apartment, much thanks to Oswald and his men.

“I am planning to stay here, to unpack the rest of the things,” you told, slightly surprised. You were flattered Oswald was so keen on taking care of you, but sometimes his kindness felt possessiveness. And it was suffocating you.

“You’re planning to spend the night here? But everything is unfinished, love.”

“That is why I’m staying. To turn this apartment into mine,” you told with a soft smile.

The hand Oswald had used to stroke your hip stilled, his fingers digging slightly into your skin before he let go, taking a step back.

“Whatever you say, love. I suppose it really doesn’t matter where we sleep—” His words were interrupted by his ringing phone. “Sorry, love. I have to take this.”

You watched him step a little further, talking silently to someone, till one of his moods took over.

_“Cannot you handle this on your own? What? How dare he. . . Fine. Fine. I will be there.”_

“Everything all right?” you asked, watching Oswald straighten his purple waistcoat.

He gave you a sour smile. “They need me at the Lounge and I think it’ll be late till I get back. . . I might not make it tonight at all, so don’t wait up. Sorry you need to sleep alone, love. . .”

“It’s fine. You would have been uncomfortable here, anyway,” you told, pecking his lips, secretly pleased.

Ever since you had begun to date Oswald, you had been together 24/7. A little bit of own time was exactly what you needed. What you had craved for, actually. . .

You left to the store soon after Oswald and his helpful goons had made an exit, hoping to fill your new fridge and buy some new clothes. The ones Oswald had gifted you were nice, but gowns were impractical outside the Lounge. You needed some jeans and skirts, a couple of shirts and underwear and socks. And you still had money to choose something nice.

The shopping took its time and it was already dark when you headed home. The street lights were on and the painfully familiar rainclouds had gathered above the city, showering first drops on the coal colored asphalt.

You could have taken a cab, but preferred to walk, despite the heavy burned: three full bags, one of food, two of clothes and other things you needed, including toilet paper and other basic sanitary equipment.

You began to regret your choice to walk two blocks from your home, however, since the skies decided to suddenly open, pouring an icy shower over you. And because of the bags, you didn’t even have an umbrella.

_How stupid can one be? Several years in this city and I still forget to carry one. Oh well, couldn’t have used it with the bags, anyway. . ._

Your thoughts started wander as your cheeks began to feel flushed. Your nose was running, too. You had been about to get sick for weeks, and it was obvious you were losing the battle.

_A bad time to get sick. . . Pity I couldn’t get sick while I stayed with Oswald. . ._

Your steps got soon a wobblier touch and the bags grew heavier in your hands. You were almost at the front of your building, when the world made a back-flip, pulling you down with it. Or it would have, unless someone had caught you. A man in a long gray coat, scarf and fedora, his clothes dripping wet. His face. . . it looked familiar.

Your voice was weak as you spoke, barely above a whisper. “D-Dr. Crane. . . I thought you were still. . .”

“In Arkham?” the dark haired psychologist asked. His nose was nearly touching yours, there was a small hint of a rasp in his voice. “Let me take you home, Lizzie. . .”

You nodded weakly, and closed your eyes.

You had done so only in the means to blink, but as you opened your eyes, you realized you weren’t at the street anymore. It took a while to realize you were on your back, looking at the slightly cracked ceiling rose of your new apartment’s living room.

“W-what. . .?”

“Hush, you have fever,” a low and pleasant voice replied, making you turn your head towards the kitchen. “Drink this. It's water, mixed with vitamins and hydration tablets. It should make you feel better,” the lanky man added, making his way over to you, taking a seat next to you on the couch.

“Dr. Crane. . .”

“Jonathan, please. . .”

“Jonathan. . .” you swallowed, letting the former psychologist to raise your head and gently press the glass on your lips. You drank, holding back a cough.

“H-how did you know where I live?”

“I have been looking for you, but didn’t find you until people saw you with Oswald. The underworld talks, Lizzie and Oswald is easy to follow. . .”

You turned your head to cough, noticing you were in your new purple sating pajamas. The one you had just bought for yourself.

“My clothes. . .”

“They were wet, Lizzie. . . I couldn’t let your wear them,” the Master of Fear murmured, almost fondly, cupping your cheek, soon trailing his hand down, brushing your chest softly with his knuckles. “I cannot let you get any sicker. . . not while we have plans for you. . .”

He eased the top button open.

You tried to focus your gaze, but your eyes rolled back in their sockets. The world was getting fuzzy. Moving. Twisting. Alive. . .

***

_“Well, go on, Jonny. This is what you wanted, innit?”_

Jonathan Crane hesitated, looming over the unconscious form of the young woman. He had taken of his glasses. He didn’t need them. Not when Scarecrow took over. Though he wasn’t completely in control. Not yet. . .

“She’s almost unconscious. . . She needs rest.”

 _“It was supposed to be fear and pleasure, Jonny-boy. Pleasure and fear. . . You already spiked her drink, why not go all the way? She’ll like it,”_ Scarecrow cackled raspily. _“The girl **loves** fear!”_

“She cannot feel any fear if she’s unconscious. . . We should wait—”

 _“_ _—_ _Wait? You’ve gotten soft, Jonny. Too sweet on her. Could it even be love, I wonder?”_ Scarecrow mocked. _“Besides the toxin is kicking in already, the adrenaline in her blood will keep her awake.”_

Jonathan considered the words of his alternative personality for a moment. She would stay awake, wouldn’t she? And they had agreed to prolong the. . . procedure. She would be his to experiment with, till Scarecrow would get his turn to toy with her. 

“I want to keep her for days, possibly weeks,” Jonathan muttered to himself, pulling his mask on.


	25. All for one

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet some old friends. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aye! A new chapter. It's been a while since the last one, so I tried to make this extra special interesting.   
> Also, I have plans for the upcoming Halloween chapter. . .

Oswald Cobblepot sighed in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had thought his men to be loyal to him . . . But no. These ungrateful shits had seen it fit to steal _his_ money. —And no one stole from the Penguin . . . without a punishment, at least.

Settling the matter would take the whole night, several, if more betrayal was yet to surface.

Sighing again, Oswald took out his cell phone, his lips curving into a soft smile.

It was impossible to think about his little Dove without smiling.

He was a lucky man, to have a woman like Liz take an interest in him. She was the very image of beauty, so loving, warm, caring and passionate. . . But he would not have her in his bed tonight. . .

The line buzzed as he waited for her to pick up, the buzzing soon turning into the dull peeping that signaled no one had picked up the call.

 _Busy setting up the apartment, no doubt, or asleep_ , Oswald thought fondly, writing a quick text.

_Love, I will be stuck at the Lounge for the night._

_Maybe longer._

_Call me when you get this. I’d love to hear your voice._

_-Xx_

Her response came a couple of minutes later.

_I lost my voice. No point in calling._

_I feel a little sick and need rest._

_I’ll let you know when I feel better._

_I don’t want you to get sick as well._

_XX_

Oswald pursed his lips, putting the phone away with a sour expression. This just wasn’t his night, was it now?

\--

Jonathan Crane exhaled softly, pulling off his mask.

 _“Easy, Jonny, easy. . .”_ his alternative personality muttered. _“We got almost carried away. . .”_

Jonathan agreed. There was no need to use his mask. The mask was for the others, for the lesser beings he saw as nothing, but potential test subjects to take part in his experiments.

Liz wasn’t an experiment. She was the one, he could tell. So different from the others he had considered. So much better than the Allbright girl he had once fancied. . .

Jonathan lowered the cell phone back on the table, turning his gaze back towards Liz.

The toxin he had spiked her drink with had taken over. The girl’s eyes were partly open, her pupils wonderfully dilated. Her breath was slowly quickening with short shallow inhales, making her bosom rise and fall beneath the satin pajamas. He could see some skin from her cleavage, right where he had eased to top button open. . .

 _“Hmm, so warm and smooth, Jonny,”_ Scarecrow rasped, making Jonathan wet his lips.

_“It would feel good to touch her, just little. Just slide your fingers over that smooth flesh. . . Don’t be coy, Jonny-boy. You wanted to touch her while undressing her, do it now. . .”_

It would feel good, that Jonathan didn’t doubt one bit. And so he cupped her cheek, running his thumb slowly over the girl’s soft lips.

They parted slightly with his touch, like a rose bud, opening. Her eyes opened fully as well, dark and hazed by the fever.

“J-Jonathan. . . I. . . I am. . .”

 _Scared._ That was the word that was left to linger in the air.

Her voice. . . a trembling whisper laced with a quiver of adrenaline, so feeble and helpless, expressing just how desperately frightened she was. . .

Jonathan could feel himself harden. Her whisper resonated in his ears, making his other personality to revel in the twisted pleasure it was receiving from her fear.

His pale fingers found their way upon her neck, lingering there, close to the hollow of her throat. Her neck was warm beneath his cool fingers. 

“Hush. I am here to take care of you,” the Master of Fear whispered with slight rasp in his voice, pushing a golden curl behind the girl’s ear. Her hair was still moist.

“Os. . . Oswald. He. . .”

“Oswald is fine. Oswald doesn’t care,” Jonathan murmured. “He isn’t coming over. I took care of it.”

He leaned in to kiss her. And the kiss was sweet —and the first one he had had in a long time.

Her lips were soft and full, feverishly warm against his own.

And he could feel her, trembling slightly beneath his weight, partly lowered upon her. But she did not object. It was not the response Jonathan would have preferred, but more than he could have ever dared to hope. . .

\--

Bruce drummed the desk impatiently with his fingers.

“She bought the apartment from Cobblepot?”

“I very much doubt Liz knew it while buying the flat. According the batcomputer she bought the apartment from a man called Stephen Brent, but Cobblepot owns the entire building.”

“It’s an alias, or perhaps one of his goons he used as a hand in between,” Bruce muttered knowingly.

“The price she paid was pretty fair,” Dick shrugged, reading through the printed papers. “You said she won the money, Alfred?”

“Yes, from the lottery. Given the price Mr. Cobblepot sold her the apartment, she has plenty left to furnish it comfortably. Liz won’t need me to support her no longer, I am afraid.”

“No, not with Cobblepot as her sugar daddy,” Dick muttered.

Bruce gave his former protégé a sour look. That was, when the computer started to beep.

“It would be the batsignal, Mr. Bruce. It appears Commissioner Gorgon needs you,” Alfred observed.

\--

You whimpered silently, feeling Jonathan’s lips upon yours. He lay partly on top of you, knee pressing gently against your crotch. You could feel his weight, his hand upon your neck, the other one caressing your breast. His thumb toyed with your nipple, making it hard and aching.

Your heart was beating fast.

The feeling was agonizing, a painful mix of nervous arousal. And the adrenaline in your blood had made your senses so much sharper. . .

“You like it, Liz. . . Tell me you like it. _Admit it_ ,” the former psychologist spoke, his last words sounding like a command, whispered in your ear with raspy voice.

“I will keep you here as long as necessary. As long as it takes for you to share all your deepest, darkest fears with me. _I will make you talk, little one. . . and then. . . I’ll make you scream. . .”_ Crane murmured, letting his tongue slide down your neck with a dark raspy chuckle.

There was a sound. Rattling, coming from the direction of your door. And with a soft click, the door swung open, revealing a person on his knees.

“There! I told you it would be easy!” a familiar voice exclaimed happily.

Your vision was slightly hazy, but you recognized the man at the doorway --and then, there was the shocked scream.

“Alice!”

It was almost funny. The Hatter could just as well have shouted ‘Kevin’. His tone was the same as Kevin’s mother’s from the Home Alone movies.

It stopped being funny as soon as the tiny man dropped on his knees, though, starting wail, while holding and shaking his head.

“Alice, oh Alice. . . Why are you treating me with such malice? How could you do this, Alice?!”

“Crane. . .”

“Edward,” the former psychologist spoke, easing himself off you. His tone was dry, but the rasp was gone. He reached for his glasses, putting them back on.

“Ed. . . ?” you murmured, easing yourself up from the couch as well. Your legs felt weak and shaky. Your heart was beating fast. But your anger was burning off the effects of the toxin. Fast. It appeared Crane had used a very small dose on you.

The dark haired psychologist caught your arm, keeping you from stumbling. “Liz is running a fever. I am here to help her.”

“So I see,” the Riddler spoke. The expression on his face was difficult to read. “May we come in?” he then asked, looking at you.

You fought your way off Crane’s grasp, making your way to the man in green. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, so you had no reason to be careful. You hit him. Hard enough to blacken his eye, you hoped.

“You buried me alive!” you hissed, nursing the hand you had hit him with.

The Riddler turned his gaze slowly back at you, raising a hand to feel his face. Apparently you had hit his cheekbone, instead of his eye.

“Fair enough,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “May we come in before someone sees us?”

You nodded, stepping aside from the doorway. Crane hadn’t put the chain on. . .

Riddler helped the sobbing Jervis in, guiding him on the couch. Crane shifted from his way, heading towards the bathroom. It looked like he didn’t want to take any part in this conversation.

“How did you find me?” you asked, crossing your arms. Had Eddie managed to track your new phone?

“Oswald. He’s easy to follow and while you’re with him, so are you.” It seemed like the Riddler wanted to say something more, but didn’t.

“I see. . .” you muttered, kneeling down next to Jervis. You were glad to see he was still well and alive. Well, mostly well. . .

“Hey. . . all is good Jervis. I’m sorry I didn’t come back that night, but Eddie buried me alive. . .”

The Hatter did not reply, just kept wailing and shaking his head.

“I found Jervis wandering the streets and took care of him. He had gone looking for you before Harley burned down your apartment,” the Riddler enlightened you, taking off his puffy green winter coat. He was wearing more casual attire underneath; a forest green sleeveless sweater on top of a white collar shirt and blue jeans.

“How kind of you to help people, _instead of burying them alive. . ._ ” you replied tartly, gently stroking Jervis’ shoulder. “Hey. . . would you like some tea? Something to eat?”

The Hatter nodded weakly, his wailing dying down as small sobs.

“Make us some tea, Eddie,” you told, taking a blanket from the couch, wrapping it around your shoulders. You felt cold. And tired. Still slightly nervous. Mostly cranky.

Edward didn’t seem happy to be bossed around, but obeyed your wish nevertheless.

“What is Crane doing here?” he asked after a while, his back towards you.

“Like he said, I’m sick and he’s here to take care of me. He picked me up on the street when I was about to faint.” Crane had other things in mind, you reckoned, but it was nothing that required repeating. Edward was a smart man. He could figure it out on his own.

“And Oswald?” the Riddler inquired, his tone light, almost indifferent.

“We’re dating,” you told honestly, shrugging. It felt odd to tell him. Almost as if you hadn’t wanted to.

Edward did not reply, but continued preparing the tea. “I could hit the store. I have disguises in my bag —no one would know it’s me. Least we can do is pay for food, during our stay.”

_He plans to stay, then? With Jervis? Figures. When you’re a super villain you have nowhere else to go. . ._

“Go if you like,” you told, glancing at Jervis from the corner of your eye. He seemed to have calmed down, to the point of being nearly catatonic. You had gotten used to it.

“. . . I am sorry, Liz. . .” Edward spoke after a while. He did not turn to look at you, while speaking out the words.

\--

Jonathan Crane nearly broke his fly, while ripping it open, releasing his throbbing cock. He needed release. Badly. Fuck patience. Fuck Edward and Jervis! He had had a chance like he had never had before —and those two had ruined it.

But no. No. Now wasn’t the time to lose his patience, even though he wanted to. He needed to take things slow, just as he had planned to. As slow as he would have to.

Liz wasn’t going to be just an amusement for a couple of hours. Not even weeks. She would become his Mistress of Fear!

 _“Mistress of Fear, eh?”_ Scarecrow chuckled. _“You’re being a bit rough with us, Jonny. Not bad, though I think her cunt would’ve felt better. . .”_

Jonathan ignored his alternative personality, stroking himself faster. He would stay of course, despite Edward and Jervis. What else could he do? He couldn’t let those two to ruin his plans. Besides, he had nowhere else to go. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crane will have his turn properly when it's time. Hold your horses.   
> There will be new plot twists coming. . .


	26. Stirring up the mess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your villain friends have decided to stay over.   
> There is some competition going on behind the scenes. . .

“Where’s Edward?” Crane asked, emerging from the bathroom. He sounded like himself, perhaps even politely interested. He was wearing his glasses, had perhaps even washed his face. His dark hair was slightly moist at the left temple, you noticed, taking small curl.

“Went to the store, said he’d get us some more food. He invited himself to stay with Jervis. I assume you’d like to stay as well?” you asked, sucking instant chicken noodles into your mouth. Eddie had warmed them for you, before departing. He had added ketchup and a touch of chili as well, which you liked.

“I would like to, if it’s no trouble,” the former psychologist spoke, glancing around. His blue eyes stopped on Jervis for a moment. The hypnotist was sitting next to you, sipping his tea with trebling hands.

You gave Jonathan a small glance. “No trouble. Or would it have made a difference?”

He did not reply, but glanced towards the tea pot. “May I?”

“Help yourself.”

He did.

You watched him, moving gracefully through the kitchen. He looked slender, even under the gray turtle neck sweater he was wearing.

“How are you feeling? Still feverish?”

“Tired. Cranky,” you replied honestly. “I should let Oswald know. . .”

“I think it would be better if you didn’t. I sent him a text from your phone. I told you’re sick and had lost your voice,” Crane told, sipping his tea. “Contact him after we’ve left.”

“How long will that take?” you asked, sour. You didn’t like people impersonating you, criminals or not.

“I need about five days. I cannot speak on behalf of Edward or Jervis.”

“That goes past Halloween.”

“So it does,” the psychologist observed. “It doesn’t matter. You’re in no shape to go out to party.”

That might have been true, but you very much believed Oswald would have preferred to spend the Halloween with you. And you with him. You thought. Assumed. . . He was your boyfriend, after all. . .

“Is there anything you can give to Jervis?” you asked after a while, placing the empty noodle bowl on the table.

“I don’t really carry anything calming on me,” Crane replied. “He’ll be fine on his own. He’s just a little shocked. Seeing you—”

“—How could you do it Alice? How could you?” the Hatter whined sadly, again starting to shake his head. “You left me and never came back and I come to find you in another man’s arms. . .”

_More like lying under one. . ._

“That’s not exactly what happened,” you told, clearing your throat. It appeared you might lose your voice, for real. “Also, my name’s not Alice. I’ll go to bed. Wake me up in two hours. Eat whatever and watch TV,” you told rising. You were definitely going to lose your voice. Your head hurt and you were cold.

 _Great. The fever’s returning. . ._ you though to yourself, crawling under the covers. _I really should have gotten sick at Oswald’s. Olga would have been there to take care of everything. And Oswald. . . He’s so warm. So warm and nice to sleep next to. . ._

You drifted off to sleep.

\--

“It’s going to be a busy night, Alfred. . .”

“Oh, I know, sir. It’s already on the news. Bane, if I am not mistaken.”

“Him. And explosives. Hostages at the bank. . .”

“You sound tired, sir. Should I send Master Dick to assist you?”

“No. I will handle this.”

“Are you sure? You do sound awfully tired,” Dick’s voice came through.

“I’m sure,” Bruce told, switching off the coms. He wasn’t tired, his mind was wandering. He would have preferred to continue his investigation on Liz and the villains. Of what was going on. But he would have to protect Gotham first. . .

\--

You woke up a couple of hours later, stretching. You had dreamed of Oswald. Of his arms around you and his cock in you, filling you up nicely.

You turned on your back, smiling. Your cheeks felt warm and you would have preferred to stay in bed, but you needed to take a piss. Probably because of the hydration tablets Crane had made you drink. . .

Eddie had returned from the store, you noticed, as you made your way in the living room, wrapped in blanket. He was sitting at the couch with the other two villains, watching TV. It was almost on mute. Crane was the first one to acknowledge your presence, turning to look at you.

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” you croaked, clearing your throat. You coughed a little.

“We thought it would do you good to sleep,” the psychologist replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Sick. Still tired,” you replied honestly.

“Then you should go back to sleep,” the Riddler cut in. “And speaking of sleeping arrangements, where might we—”

“—We speak of that in a moment,” you interrupted, heading to the bathroom.

You knew this would be weird. You had a sofa-bed, and it even might fit all three men, assuming they were willing to sleep next to each other. But you knew there would be volunteers to occupy the space next to you on the bed. . .

Jervis had already done it, you recalled with mild embarrassment. And Crane had been on top of you on the sofa when the criminal duo had broken in. That would only leave. . . well, you had been with Edward in his room, though not as intimately as you would have wanted to.

It felt like it had happened a thousand years ago, when you two still had had something.

_It sure was something, all right. Something that led to being buried alive, after being left humiliated and wanting for a couple of times. . ._

The men were waiting for you with expectant expressions on their faces. Ed was drinking coffee, it seemed, while Jervis and Crane were more interested in tea. There were empty plates on the coffee table before the new red couch.

“Now, then; you can all sleep on the sofa-bed. I have comforters for two and a blanket for one. Enough pillows for everyone. Those who do not like this arrangement can sleep on the floor. Sheets are still in the packages in the closet. Help yourself.”

“But Alice I was—”

“I am not Alice, Jervis,” you told raising your hand to silence the hypnotist. “I am Liz, and I am going back to bed,” you told, making your way back to the bedroom. You closed the door, just to drop the guys a hint.

 _Here I am, housing three wanted criminals under my roof. I wonder what’s next? The bat crashes in? Joker bombs down the building?_ You shook your head tiredly, starting to wonder what Oswald was doing at the moment.

You shifted slightly under the blankets, closing your eyes. Every night untill this one, you two had made love. Oswald had been very generous, while taking care of _all_ your needs. But he wasn’t here now —and you were left wanting.

 _A pity I haven’t had the chance to buy a new vibrator yet_ , you thought to yourself, slipping a hand under the covers to touch yourself.

You did it like Oswald would have done, while warming you up, slipping your middle finger between your lips to touch your clit and entrance, while your forefinger and ring finger worked on your outer lips. 

You thought of him. His fingers stroking your pussy while his mouth landed on yours with kisses tasting of expensive wine. The tip of his nose would touch yours occasionally. It was a thing he liked to do, rub noses to create more intimacy.

His body would be warm next to yours, slightly soft under your hands. You would reach for his cock and he would sigh in your ear, just as he always did. _“Oh, love. . .”_

Oswald may not have been much of a talked during the act, but he made other kinds of pleasing sound, forcing them out of you as well. Making you gasp and moan, arch your back as you welcomed his cock inside you. . .

_“Riddle me this: What’s slippery when wet and very loud?”_

You opened your eyes for a moment, stilling your hand, until you continued. Stroking yourself, more aggressively, dipping a finger in, teasing yourself.

It had been a text message, but you could hear his voice clearly in your head.

It had been so different with Eddie. The gifts, teasing, wordplay that qualified as foreplay. . .

With Eddie it had always been so exciting. So new. So frustrating. . .

You lifted your hips, tensing you butt. And orgasmed with a muffled moan.

_Can’t say ‘orgasmed’ without ‘ed’. . ._

You sighed at your own thoughts, catching your breath. Your heart was beating fast, your muscles felt slightly sore. There was some light creeping in between the blinds. Not much, though. Your apartment was on third floor.

It was a good apartment. Oswald had been kind, to arrange it for you. Without him, you might have ended up further from down town and ended up paying more for less space.

 _Do I miss him, as much as I should?_ you asked yourself. _Or am I glad to spend a little time apart?_

You were too tired for such speculation, you finally decided, turning on your side, closing your eyes.

\--

Jonathan Crane lied on his back, studying the worn ceiling rose. The room was almost dark, illuminated occasionally by the lights of the passing by cars on street below.

Jervis was snoring softly on the floor. It had been his own decision, to sleep on the floor close to ‘Alice’s’ door. Crane hoped she would not trip on the hypnotist, should she visit the bathroom during the night. . .

Edward shifted next to him on the sofa-bed. He had made himself comfortable, stripping all the way down to his boxers. Jonathan himself, preferred to keep a little more clothes on. The room was rather warm, however, with three people sleeping in it. He might remove his sweater eventually. He would also like to shower, if Liz wouldn’t mind. Perhaps. . . have his laundry done, if it wasn’t too much trouble. He had but one set of clothes on him, only Edward had come prepared, with extra clothes in his tube sports-back.

Edward’s breathing grew heavier, telling a tale he also had fallen asleep. Crane himself was the only one awake, he reckoned.

_“Thinking of our future Mistress of Fear again, are you, Jonny?”_

He was. Without Eddie and Jervis, things could have been very different at the moment.

 _“The girl seems to like Halloween, why don’t we give her one to remember us by?”_ Scarecrow suggested, amused.

Here? In her house? With Jervis and Edward?

 _“That’s right, Jonny-boy. Let us show her we can be friendly. That we can be **normal**.”_ Scarecrow cackled at his own choice of words. _“Let us make little Liz believe we’re boyfriend material, lull her into false sense of security. That she can trust us, that she needs us. And when the time is ripe, she will come to us.”_

“That might take a while. She’s with Oswald now, she’d been very clear on that,” Jonathan whispered into the darkness, glancing at the riddle-man by his side, as he shifted again, making a humming sound in his sleep.

Jonathan’s alternative personality smirked, as he spoke out the following words: _“Let’s face it Jonny, that relationship little Liz has with the Penguin was doomed from the start. We must only be patient, and wait. . .”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one will be the Halloween episode! =D


	27. The unforgettable Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your villainous friends have decided to throw you a Halloween to remember them by.   
> Bruce reveals some of his plans to Dick.   
> Oswald missed you and wishes you were with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dearest friends and readers. . .   
> I believe Halloween will be quite different for all of us this year, but it doesn't have to be boring.   
> I suggest you take out your treats and drinks, lay back and get comfortable for there will be many tricks for you in this . . .   
> over 16 pages long Halloween special. 
> 
> Happy Halloween!

“What’s all this?” you asked with sore voice, glancing around your living room on the morning of All Hallows’ Eve.

Your apartment had gone through quite a change during the night (or morning hours) it seemed, with cheap paper chains of pumpkins, spiders and ghost hanging from the ceiling. There were tall black candles on the tables, along with a couple of ceramic Jack O’Lanterns. There even was a real size-ish skeleton image taped to the front of the fridge, you noticed, allowing your eyes to travel around the apartment.

“Liz, you’re finally awake,” Crane observed pleasantly, sipping his coffee. There was no trace of Eddie or Jervis in the apartment. Even the sofa had been put back together.

“Where are Ed and Jervis?” you asked, allowing your eyes to wander. The decoration was exquisite, in its own way. Tasteful and fun, despite the items being cheap. You couldn’t help but notice the lack of bats, which you didn’t mind. It amused you, actually. None of you were fond of bats, it seemed, even as Halloween decoration.

“They went to the store, again. Eddie said he needed help to carry the bags and Jervis felt eager to oblige. They’re rather well disguised, so we needn’t worry. Coffee?”

“Yes please,” you said in slow awe, taking a seat at the table. With three wanted criminals in your apartment, you had prepared for some surprises, but not this.

“I thought of your words about Halloween and since we’re all here, I thought we might have a little party of our own,” Crane told, placing a mug before you, along with a plate of pancakes.

“Did you make these?” you asked, marveling at your breakfast.

“Edward did, I kept them warm for you,” Crane replied shortly and you couldn’t help, but notice small dislike in his voice. “Milk?”

You nodded, cutting into your breakfast. The pancakes tasted divine. Apparently it was true: the riddle-man was good at everything he did. Even cooking gourmet level breakfast.

You sighed, thinking of last night. How you had pleasured yourself, thinking of him. It hadn’t been planned; his words had just popped into your mind —and woken fond memories.

 _Memories that should remain buried_ , you though, your lips quirking softly up at your own thoughts. _Buried indeed. . ._

“I should let Oswald know I’m alive,” you said, looking for your phone.

“There was a text late last night. Oswald is a little tied up at the Lounge, will most likely be so for a couple of days.”

“I still should call him. Where’s my phone?” you insisted. You had to call him. You really wanted to. Not only because you wanted to shake off your thoughts of the riddle-man, along with the shame your impulsive masturbation-session had caused. . . But you really wanted to hear his voice.

Crane looked at you in silence over his coffee cup. His eyes were steely behind his glasses, so very blue. “On the counter, beside the coffee maker,” he finally said.

You realized you had been holding your breath, as you raised, taking your phone with you in the bedroom. The doctor didn’t like it, when people opposed his advice, it seemed. . .

It was 11:30, so Oswald should have been awake, you reckoned, selecting his number. As you had guessed, he answered after a couple of rings.

“Oswald, it’s me,” you spoke as soon as you heard he had picked up.

_“Love? I am glad you called. How are you feeling?”_

“Sore throat, but my voice is returning. No more fever. How are things there?”

 _“A mess,”_ he said with a short laughter. By his tone, you knew he was frustrated —and tired.

“I have missed you,” you said after a while. It felt appropriate. Like it was something you were supposed say.

 _“And I have missed you. I’ve slept at the Lounge. . . I was feeling very lonely, love,”_ Oswald then said, his tone suddenly turning husky.

“At the Lounge? Are things that bad?”

_“It’s just regular business, nothing to concern yourself with, love. Tell me, what are you wearing?”_

“Oh, just this purple satin pajamas thing, nothing nice,” you replied, your mind suddenly flashing rich with images at Oswald in his office. In his fancy waistcoat, cock rock hard in his pants. . . It was a nice sight: one you had difficult time keeping your hands off.

 _“Send me a picture of yourself, love.”_ You could hear he was breathing slightly faster. _“Naked.”_

The hell you were. If there was one thing that was a strict no-no, it was sending nudes. You knew these pictures were used in blackmail. And despite Oswald being your boyfriend, you weren’t sending him any pictures.

“I do live show only, you know that,” you spoke with your most teasing voice. The fact how hoarse you sounded gave a nice touch to the teasing.

 _“Are you toying with me, love?”_ He sounded more anticipating than angry.

“Perhaps,” you murmured with a smile.

The line buzzed and you could hear Oswald swallow. _“Love. . . if you keep doing that I might not be able to be gentle with you, when we meet. . .”_

“I will not mind.”

There was a moment of silence.

_“Get on the bed love, touch yourself.”_

“Oswald, I’m feeling kinda tired. . .”

_And Crane’s in the other room. . ._

_“Do it. Do it for me,”_ he murmured, and you were able to hear he was panting slightly.

Oswald definitely was touching himself, you realized, suddenly getting wet at the though. The Penguin certainly had a way to express just how much he wanted you. He always had. And there once had been time, you had feared he would get bored with you, once he had you on your back.

“I’m getting on the bed. It feels empty without you,” you murmured, painfully aware of Crane on the other side of the wall. You would do this quickly and quietly and pretend it never happened.

_“Yes, love. Keep talking. . .”_

“I am lying down, slowly opening the buttons of my pajamas. I am naked underneath. It’s chilly in the room, my nipples are hard. I’m sad you’re not here, Oswald. You could warm them with your mouth, slowly suck them even harder. . .”

 _“I would do just that, love. I would do just that,”_ the Penguin panted and you could visualize him nodding, his eyes half closed, hand stroking his cock.

“I’m taking my pants off now, lying naked on the bed. I spread my legs while fondling my breast,” you breathed softly, doing just that. What was the point in phone sex unless you did what you said you were doing? And the way Oswald was breathing at the other end of the line was making you very, very horny.

_“Yes. Yes. . .”_

“I’m touching myself now, teasing my lips with my fingertips. I feel hot and moist. My clit is swollen and aching. So very sensitive. So ready to be touched. I wish you’d be here to touch me, Oswald.”

_“Oh, God! Love!”_

Your job was done, you reckoned, mildly frustrated. Now you’d just have to take care of yourself, because you were positively aching.

There was a knock on the door.

“Lizzie, are you alright?”

“Ahah!” you said, making it sound like an agreement, as well as false signal to Oswald you had finished. “I will call you later,” you breathed, ending the call. “I’ll be out in a minute!” you then told Crane, quickly starting to get dressed.

“Just checking you haven’t fainted,” the psychologist spoke through the door.

Crane was waiting for you in the living room, his face an unreadable mask. “How’s Oswald?”

“Oswald is fine, just very busy,” you told, glancing down, trying to make your breathing sound normal —and not a bit exhausted. Still you knew you might not be able to fool him. Your cheeks were positively glowing and you suspected he might have heard some of the conversation; the apartment had thin walls. . .

“Running the Lounge does not happen without an effort,” Crane replied, as the front door opened and two strangers walked in. Or so you had thought, until you recognized them as Eddie and Jervis. With wigs, fake mustache, beard and glasses, the two were almost impossible to be recognized as themselves.

“Alice, you’re awake!” Jervis exclaimed happily, removing his fake beard, his yesterday’s shock completely gone and forgotten.

“My name’s not Alice, it’s Amber,” you replied slowly, looking at Ed. Seeing him, even in a black wig and ridiculous mustache, made you feel. . . tight downstairs.

_Pull yourself together, woman. It was only a fantasy. There’s nothing wrong about sexual fantasies. I can imagine what the hell I want, even fucking Batman if that makes me happy. . . and to cum. . ._

“We hit the store with Jervis and bought some Halloween goodies,” Eddie spoke slowly. He had quite a bruise under his left eye. “We thought it would be good to let you sleep as long as you did. I borrowed your keys,” he added.

“It felt good to sleep,” you replied, shifting slightly. “Thank you, for the pancakes. They were lovely.”

_Not awkward. Not awkward at all. . . Holy shit, I really hit him hard. . ._

“Oh well, you know me; I am world’s greatest everything,” the Riddler spoke with a small shrug, lifting the plastic bags on the kitchen counter. “That includes being a chef.”

“I’m gonna go to the shower,” you told, suddenly feeling the urge to get a little private time. “You boys finish with your decoration and with everything else you’re going to do. Then maybe we could watch some movies. . .”

“That was the plan,” Crane nodded with half closed lids.

\--

“You’re heading out again, Master Bruce?”

“Bane’s in Arkham, but the others are still loose. Joker, Crane, Riddler, Jervis, Ivy. . .”

“But sir. . .”

“No buts, Alfred. It’s Halloween. Gotham needs me.”

“I am very well aware it’s Halloween, sir. Bruce Wayne is going to host a charity ball at midnight, least you have forgotten. Gotham needs him, too. Now more than it needs Batman, I dare say.”

Bruce stilled in the midst of putting on his cowl. His jaw tightened. The criminals were still out there, as was Liz. . .

She was with them, in one way or another. Bruce knew he couldn’t escape the truth any longer. He had tried to, wanted to; that much he could admit to himself. He had spent countless hours at the batcomputer, trying to find traces of blackmail, brainwashing, kidnapping, anything at all. . . But there was nothing. Liz was with the criminals willingly. The way she had hung from Cobblepot’s arm had been evidence enough.

She was. . . infatuated with the criminals. Perhaps even. . . sexually drawn to them. To Nigma, at least. There was enough evidence of their intimate relationship, there was no denying it.

But she could still be helped. Liz wasn’t a criminal herself. She was innocent, only. . . misled. Taking the wrong path. It all could still be fixed. Batman could lock up all the criminals back in Arkham and Liz would be safe. She wouldn’t have any criminals to idolize, not to interact with.

Cobblepot would be a trickier one to clear out, but there was always something. Something that would send him to Blackgate for a good long while. . .

“Sir?”

“I’ll take care of it, Alfred.”

“You sound sour, perhaps we should ask Liz to join us at the ball,” Dick spoke, making his way into the batcave. He was already wearing his tux.

“You could try it, sir. Perhaps send her a nice dress, with an apology card,” Alfred suggested.

“An apology card?”

“You’re not in the best of terms with her, sir. As I have told you; whenever a woman is vexed, for a reason or another, it is best to apologize. . .”

Yes. Bruce knew he wasn’t good at apologizing. It was worth a try, to win Liz back. He had already lost so much. His parents, Selina, who had left Gotham, after her miscarriage. . . He couldn’t lose Liz as well.

\--

Edward had done well at the store, you thought to yourself, setting the treats in pumpkin shaped ceramic bowls. The set was a house warming gift from the villains. A very sweet one, as you saw it. Now you had one white, one orange and one green with decorative details. Each one had a lid.

Eddie had brought enough candy to give you all a severe case of sugar rush, it seemed, as well as soda, chips of three kinds and Halloween themed cupcakes and cookies —and none were bat-shaped.

Jervis was helping you eagerly with the cupcakes, while Eddie and Jonathan were putting up the rest of the décor. They had bought some more pumpkins and Jonathan was fondly putting up a medium sized ghost in the corner, which looked to float a little bit above the ground. There were also balloons, both black and orange ones to make the room look very full with its horror props. They guys had even arranged a swarm of flying pumpkins to hang from the ceiling, which was even better than having bats, you though amused.

The impressive setting made you hope the criminals were going to help you take down the décor, before leaving. You’d hate to use several hours to undo such a scene by yourself.

You were just studying Eddie from the corner of your eye, watching him spread spider webs on the windows and doorframes, when your phone rang.

“Probably Oswald,” you murmured, getting surprised, however, once you noticed the caller was Bruce.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” you muttered to your villainous friends, heading in the bedroom.

\--

Jervis Tetch smiled to himself, his hands busy with the cupcakes. They were all right, for a market product. Red velvet ones, with pitch back liquorish frosting. There was supposed to be sour red jam inside, the packet said.

Red like Alice’s lips. Only Alice’s lips were sweet. Oh so very, very sweet. . .

Jervis hummed a tune, adding more orange sprinkles on the cupcakes. They made them so much nicer, almost home made. He would have done better, though. Only Eddie hadn’t allowed him to bake.

Alice deserved perfect cupcakes, he firmly believed.

Oh, poor sweet Alice. . . How he had found her! Lying under that. . . that monster!

Alice was sweet, Alice was gentle. But she had gotten so terribly lost in her mind. So lost she had forgotten she belonged with him, with the Hatter. In Wonderland.

But he would fix the situation. Oh he would indeed. For Alice was in, for a very special treat. But not yet, no. Not while Eddie and the monster were here, watching.

Jervis knew he would be good and patient now, almost invisible, like the Cheshire Cat. Then he would come back, when the others were gone. He knew where Alice lived now. . .

\--

“Yeah?” you answered tartly, sitting on the bed. From your bedroom window you would see it was raining again. The bats and ghost the Gothamites had put out swung softly in the rising wind. There might be a storm coming. . .

_“Liz. I -ah, called to ask if you’d like to go to a charity ball with me?”_

“Why? Did run out of models?” you shot back at Bruce, glaring. A pity he could not see it through the phone. And there was no way you would do face-time with him.

Whenever you saw his face or he contacted you, you remembered just how angry you were with him. He had kissed you, publicly, completely against your will and without warning and that had ended up on the paper. It was because of _him_ your thing with Eddie had gone sour. The image probably was even the reason Eddie had buried you alive in the first place. Eddie had done it because. . . he had been so jealous. . . You knew that was the reason. Had known for a while. You had just ignored it, because of your anger, because of all that had happened. . . Because Oswald had. . . seduced you.

You held back a sigh, feeling much worse you had done a moment ago.

“I got to go, Bruce,” you murmured, ending the call just before you sneezed. Stress was not good for you, while you were still recovering.

Your phone rang again and you put in on mute. You didn’t want to deal with Bruce tonight.

“Everything good?” Edward asked as you re-entered the living room. It looked like everything began to be ready for your movie marathon. Even the weather: Because of the approaching storm it was already getting dark. But then again, dark was pretty common at 4:15pm in Gotham at this time of the year.

You nodded. “Yeah, that was just. . . Nothing important. You guys wanna start watching movies now?”

“If it is not too much trouble, I’d like to shower and change,” Eddie told. “I also bought PJs for the rest of you, like you asked,” he added glancing at Crane and Jervis.

“Yeah, sure. You can all shower and if you’ve got dirty clothes just put them in the washer and I’ll run it later,” you told with a nod. You’d have to do laundry soon anyway. Some of the new stuff had to be washed before use and your casual attire had gotten slightly muddy before Crane had brought you to your apartment.

“That’s settled then, I’ll go first,” the Riddler told, pulling off his shirt on the way. The sight of him made you swallow. Eddie sure liked to take care of himself, you though, when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it. Get in the bedroom, close the door,” you hissed at Crane and Jervis, making sure they were out of sight before you opened the door. It was a delivery guy.

“Miss Pennyworth? Sign here, please.”

You did, nodding as the man wished you happy Halloween, departing. The box he left you was rather large, but not heavy, you observed curiously, taking it on the kitchen table.

“You can come out now!” you called, reaching for scissors to open the box.

It was a gown. A ball gown! And it came with a card. . .

_Dear Liz,_

_sorry for being an ass._

_I hope you can forgive me._

_-Bruce_

_PS: I hope you’d keep this, even if you’re not coming to the ball._

“A lovely dress. From Oswald?” Crane inquired politely.

“From a friend. He asked me to a ball, but I’m sick and you’re all here, so I’m not obviously going.”

“Would you have liked to?”

“No,” you replied honestly.

“But perhaps you’d like to try the dress,” Crane suggested gently.

“Yes, Alice! Please try it on!”

You considered it. It looked very nice, a long evening gown of gold colored fabric with lots of sequins in it. And it came with a mask. . . A silvery mask with bird-like resemblance. An owl maybe?

_Not just a ball then, but a masquerade. A Halloween ball. . ._

“Well, all right,” you murmured, hurrying to the bedroom to change.

“Can one of you do my zipper?” you asked after a while, walking out. The hem was slightly too long, since you weren’t wearing heels.

“Allow me,” Crane murmured. His hand landed to the small of your back for a moment, as his other one pulled up the zipper slowly. His fingers felt warm through the fabric, so very long and slender. You could imagine he could do lots of things with those fingers. . .

“You look lovely, Alice, but I would have preferred it to be blue. Now you don’t look like yourself at all,” Jervis observed, slightly tilting his head.

“He’s right, you do look lovely,” Crane murmured, slowly spinning you around. His hand never left you hip.

He was tall, standing so close to you, towering over half a head taller. His eyes were darkened behind his glasses, so dark they were the color midnight sky.

“Not just lovely, but ravishing,” he whispered in your ear, gently taking your hand, extending it into a dancing pose. Then he began to lead. And he was easy to follow, after your mild surprise.

His hands felt natural on your body, intimate, but respectful. And he sure knew how to dance. . .

“Try on the mask, Alice,” Jervis urged, holding out the silvery owl-face.

“Even more intriguing with the mask,” Crane hummed, his lips curving into a soft smile as he studied you in your full attire.

“Yes, I’d even call her mysterious. Next,” Eddie told, making a sharp gesture towards the bathroom with his thumb, throwing a towel on his shoulder. He had dressed into green PJ pants with tartan patter and a forest green T-shirt. The pants hung slightly loose from his hips, you noticed, trying not to wet your suddenly very dry lips.

His reddish-brown hair was still moist, combed over his head. He smelled of soap and deodorant.

“That’ll be me,” Crane murmured, pulling away from you, heading into the bathroom.

“What’s this about?” the Riddler asked, eying you up and down.

“Alice got it as a gift,” Jervis explained helpfully. He was still looking at you in awe, that familiar worshipping glint in his eyes.

“From Oswald? That’s totally his style.”

“From Bruce. He invited me to a ball, but obviously I’m not going,” you told in a single, deep inhale. There was no point in hiding it. Edward was quick and efficient to figure things out. “I should take this off,” you added, making a gesture toward the bedroom.

“I can help you with that,” Edward told, starting to push you towards the bedroom.

You stopped him at the door, placing your hand against the doorframe. “That’s far enough. Just undo my zipper.”

“Are you sure you don’t need any more help, or don’t you just trust yourself with me?” His voice was low and pleasant. Teasing enough to send a jolt of arousal through your body.

“Just do as you’re told,” you said, pushing your hair out of the way.

“As you wish,” the Riddler murmured with amusement, slowly starting to pull down your zipper. “This thing you have with Oswald, how serious is it?” He spoke silently enough so Jervis would not hear your conversation.

 _No. Not this. Do not go there. Do not ask me that_.

“I lived with him a little while. We are dating publicly,” you answered truthfully.

“But how serious is it?” the Riddler insisted. His hand had stopped to the small of your back. He didn’t let you to reply, however, but continued, “This pose you’re in certainly wakes up memories, if you’d just put your other hand on the wall, Minx. . .

You flushed so badly you could feel it. How dare he speak of that night? How dare he act like nothing had happened? That you two were OK? That he hadn’t buried you alive. . .

“It is serious. Thanks for your help. I’ll be out in a moment,” you murmured, keeping your gaze down. You didn’t want to look at him in the eye. Not while he was so close. Now while that bruise still decorated his cheek, bright and blue.

“Still, you moved out to live on your own. You wanted out,” you heard the Riddler say, before you closed the bedroom door behind you.

All the guys had showered while you had changed back into your PJs and hung the gown in your closet, you noticed. Eddie held the remote and was flipping through channels. Crane held a popcorn bowl on his lap while Jervis seemed to be lost in his thoughts, leaning against his palm.

They looked oddly casual, just sitting there, all in their pajamas. Eddie in his green one, Crane wearing shades of blue. Jervis had gotten a set of black pants and a gray T-shirt.

“Ah, Lizzie, come join us,” Crane spoke, shifting. He left a space for you in the middle. Right between Eddie and himself.

“Thanks,” you murmured, taking a seat between the men, sitting cross-legged to keep your feet warm. You had also wrapped a blanket around your shoulders, since you had begun to feel cold. And you weren’t wearing a bra under your white tank top. You were sick and at home, certainly you had the right to remain braless. Besides, the pajamas wasn’t very sexy; long pink loose pants with the tank top. Nothing for the guys to get excited about, really.

“Here,” Ed spoke, giving you the remote. “Are you cold?” he then asked, slightly tilting his head. There were no signs of your earlier conversation. No flirt, no suggestive expressions.

“A little,” you admitted, feeling sorry you hadn’t yet gotten any pay channels or movie apps. You’d have to settle what was shown on the TV.

“Then I’ll have something to warm you up,” the Riddler spoke, making his way to his bag. There he dug out two bottles of white Bacardi rum. “This is your brand, is it not?”

You didn’t dare to ask how he knew. . .

“I am not certain if Liz should drink so soon. She has only begun to recover,” Crane spoke, eyeing the bottles with mild disapproval.

“I have no more fever and I’m cold. Where’s the harm in that?” you asked shrugging.

“Yeah, let the Minx drink, Crane,” Edward echoed, pouring you all a sturdy glass. Jervis wanted his mixed in cherry soda. You figured he wasn’t much of a drinker. In a way, you though it was adorable.

“I suppose there is no actual harm, then. I was merely being cautious,” the psychologist spoke with a soft sigh. He looked mildly irritated.

You took the offered glass, murmuring a thank you, avoiding eye contact. Ed had just used your old nickname again. You weren’t certain how to feel about that, except your face felt a tad hotter than it had felt a moment ago. He certainly had managed to wake up some memories. All of them, actually.

“There’s Phantom of the Opera coming on channel four,” you informed the gang, trying to ignore the mild feel of moistness you had started to get to your downstairs.

As there were no objections, you settled to watch just that. The hard core horror was coming closer to midnight, anyways. Besides, you liked the movie. The story was good and music was powerful. It was a very good warm up movie.

“I didn’t know you like musicals,” Crane observed quietly, passing the candy bowl to Edward over your lap.

“I like this one. There’s just something about this movie. A mysterious man in a mask, only hoping to gain understanding and love. . .”

Crane made a humming sound. It sounded almost approving.

“Do you think Christine picked the wrong man, in the end?” the psychologist then asked, shifting. His leg pressed softly against yours. It felt like a suggestion, an inquiry perhaps.

“She had little choice, I suppose. I would have chosen differently. The Phantom is obviously a genius, I mean; just look at that lair!”

“I could have built a better one,” Edward muttered, sucking on a pear flavored gummy. He had shifted as well, his leg also pressing against yours, more obviously than Crane’s.

The two men glanced at each other, briefly and not very nicely.

You held back a sigh. Perhaps it was partly because of the alcohol, or the absurd situation with your apartment full of villains, but you felt very amused. It almost felt like you had family around you.

“I want another one. Can you mix it with pear soda?” you then asked, handing your glass to Ed.

“I’ll do even better and mix you a drink,” the Riddler told, rising. “Anyone else?”

“Me,” Crane told, and Jervis echoed him by nodding and handing his glass.

Eddie’s drink turned out to be a mix of rum, pear soda with a dash of lemon and two salty liquorish skulls at the bottom.

“I think I’ll call this Zombie juice,” Eddie told, sipping his drink approvingly. “The old lady is the head vampire, by the way.”

“Thank you for ruining the movie, Edward. Also, your drink is disgusting,” Crane told, glaring at the taste of his drink.

“You know what. I don’t believe you. The priest is the head vampire —and the drink is rather good,” you told, turning your attention towards the TV. You hadn’t seen this movie before.

“Oh, and what’s your reasoning on that?” the Riddler insisted and so, you began the whole movie long argument, in good spirit. In the end, the old lady turned out to be the head vampire, giving Edward plenty of reason to act smug.

“You guys, I’m getting pretty tired,” you murmured around 9pm, stretching.

“Oh Alice, don’t go yet! Stay! The fun is only starting!” Jervis pleaded. “I’ll make you tea, so you’ll feel better!”

“Jervis is right, the good movies are about to start,” Crane said, reaching to touch your forehead. “Though I must say, you do feel rather warm,” he added, letting his hand drop down to your cheek.

“I feel like I should lie down,” you confessed.

“Let’s open the sofa-bed, then you can lie down and watch the movies,” Edward suggested. He looked at you with slightly tilted head.

“I don’t know. . .”

“It doesn’t really differ from our current setting, except you’d be more comfortable. I am sure Oswald will understand.”

He might, but you weren’t going to tell him. You didn’t want to make his possessiveness any worse.

“Fine, then. If I fall asleep, awake me up and tell me to go to my own bed,” you told, rising to give the guys space to work with the couch.

Eddie’s idea turned out to be wonderful; you soon came to notice, despite its nest-like intimacy. You certainly were warm and comfortable now, lying between the villains, buried in blankets and a drink in your hand. The goodies got passed around frequently, making the mix of sweet and salty just perfect. This was the perfect Halloween. There was no denying it.

“Now we’re talking,” you murmured as Conjuring 2 started on channel six. “I only hope I can stay awake through this.” You stilled, considering. Maybe it was the company, or the fact that you were down your third drink, but you came up with an idea so insane it would have made even the Joker proud.

“Jonathan, could you spike our drinks with your fear stuff, make the night truly unforgettable?”

\--

The Master of Fear could have sworn his cock just stirred with the girl’s words.

_She’s asking for it. Give her what she wants, Jonny. . ._

“I could do that, I suppose. A very controlled dose would certainly keep you awake, without causing any unwanted side effects. . .”

“I must be crazy, but do it Crane,” Edward said. His arm rested on the back of the couch, right behind Lizzie. They both looked very comfortable. Too comfortable. . .

_Spike the leprechaun’s drink, Jonny. Spike it good. Make the man wet himself._

That, Edward would never forgive him —and even though the idea was tempting, Crane knew better than to provoke his fellow villains. You never knew when you needed to crash a place to hide in.

“Uh, only little in mine,” Jervis murmured. He was still down to his second drink and almost wasted, light weight, as he was.

“Very well then,” Crane spoke. “Allow me to make your Halloween even scarier. . .”

\--

“You’re distracted, Bruce,” Dick observed, looking at his former mentor. He just stood at the edge of the ball room, drink in hand and a distant look in his eyes.

“What?”

“Distracted. You’re distracted. Thinking about Liz again?”

“She lives on her own now, Dick. It would be a perfect time to recruit her as the new Robin. . .”

“I thought you had dropped the idea, Bruce. Have you forgotten how many Robin’s you’ve lost?”

“Her training will happen at the batcave. I will not bring her out on the field.”

“You’ve said that before and I still think it’s a bad idea. Besides, what makes you think she’ll agree?”

“She will agree,” Bruce replied darkly. “Otherwise. . . She will agree. She has to.”

\--

Your suggestion of little extra fear had felt like a good idea a while back, but now you weren’t so certain anymore.

Your heart was beating fast, your body felt frozen into a single position. Edward was breathing fast next to you, his each inhale short and shallow. Jervis was watching the movie his eyes wide with terror, totally frozen. He was squeezing the comforter between his fingers, his knuckles white.

Crane was breathing fast as well. You could see him, from the corner of your eye, his chest rising and falling beneath the blue T-shirt. He wasn’t scared, though. He hadn’t spiced up his own drink. He was aroused —and he was watching you.

You could feel it, the gaze of his blue eyes, secretly traveling on your body, stopping to study your bosom every now and then.

The blanket had fallen down to your waist, exposing two braless breasts underneath. Your nipples showed through the tank top, you distantly acknowledged, but hardly cared. You were having a mild panic attack.

“Don’t worry, Lizzie. It is only a movie,” Crane murmured. His hand moved beneath the blanket, settling to rest quite high on your thigh. “Don’t fight it and you’ll enjoy it. Let the fear flow through you.”

You jumped slightly with the scene of the Crookedman, grabbing Ed’s hand with a gasp.

The Riddle-man cursed silently, squeezing your hand tighter. Yet you could see he was grinning. His dose of the toxin had apparently been smaller one, than yours.

“Chocolate, Lizzie,” Crane then said, guiding a peanut butter square in your mouth with his free hand. The one under the blankets tightened its grip, his fingers slipping on your inner thigh.

“You should eat a little, so you won’t slip too far. . .”

Crane’s voice was already coming from afar.

Besides, you didn’t want to eat. You wanted to have an orgasm. Badly.

“Did you drug me?” you asked the Master of Fear, your head lolling to the side. You were moving your hips beneath the blanket, fighting the urge to touch yourself.

Crane smiled, leaning closer. His breath was warm in your ear, as he whispered out his sweet suggestion: “Do you want me to help you? I promise the others won’t notice. . .”

“No. . .” you murmured, your cheeks glowing hot, slipping your own had between your legs, starting to stroke yourself through the pajamas.

“I think I could still help. You want me to, little Lizzie,” Crane murmured raspily, placing his hand on your belly where it started its journey down, all the way down.

You glanced at Ed and Jervis, worried, ashamed, but they were oddly frozen, eyes nailed to the TV.

“Don’t worry about them, little Lizzie, they won’t bother us,” the Master of Fear murmured, slipping two fingers in your pussy with a pleased exhale.

“My, my. . . So wet and tight. Yours must be the most adorable pussy I’ve ever had my fingers in, little Lizzie. . .”

You gasped, your back arching as the Master of Fear pushed his fingers in yet again, as deep as he could. You were soaked and ready to cum. You were dripping on his fingers, you could feel it. Just as you could feel you were still squeezing Eddie’s hand in yours.

“Don’t I get any?” the Riddle-man then spoke, suddenly turning towards you. “Surely I can participate,” he said, leaning to take a nipple in his mouth through your tank top. His hand caressed your other breast, fondling it with circular motion.

“Oh. . . oh my god, Eddie. . .”

“It’s nice to hear how much you appreciate me, Minx,” he murmured, grinning and pulled your top down to expose your breast. His lips landed on your bare skin, as did his tongue, studying the round shape of your breast, before moving to lick your nipple.

“Don’t be greedy, Edward. She’s still my Alice,” Jervis spoke, moving closer to pull your top down from the other side, before taking your other nipple in his mouth.

You moaned with a whimper, your thighs cramping in anticipated orgasm. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. But dear god it felt good. . .

“I think you should lie down, little Lizzie,” the Master of Fear murmured, grabbing your legs, pulling you roughly down on your back. Then, he pulled your pants off, while Edward took care of your top, slipping it over your head.

And there you lay, fully exposed, shivering slightly. There were many hands upon your body, caressing you, touching you. Fondling your thighs and breasts.

“Just look at you, you’re ravishing,” Crane murmured, pressing his mouth on yours. His lips were so soft and full and it was not long after when he slipped his tongue in your mouth. His hand was still between your legs, stroking your wet slit.

“Just do it, Crane,” you hissed, your hips bucking up under his weight.

The Master of Fear chuckled darkly, leaning in for yet another kiss and as he pulled away, you realized he was holding your blood dripping tongue between his needle sharp, grinning teeth.

“Liz. Liz. Lizzie. . .”

“You let out a yelp, realizing you were looking at two faces, staring down at you. Crane was the closest one, his hand tapping your cheek, gently but rabidly.

He sighed, as he realized your eyes were open, his jaw tightening.

“I told the alcohol was a bad idea,” he spoke, turning to look at Edward.

“No one told you to drug her,” the Riddle-man shrugged. “At least not with such a dose you gave her.” He kept a pause, his lips quirking up. “Were you actually _planning_ to drug her? Is that why you didn’t want her to drink?”

The Master of Fear did not reply to his comment, but turning his gaze back toward you.

“You fell asleep in the middle of the movie,” he told, slowly pulling away. His long fingered hand lingered on your face a moment longer than necessary. “The alcohol overpowered the toxin. It sounded like you had nightmares.”

“Yes. Yes, it was a rather restless dream,” you nodded, wetting your lips. Your mouth felt dry, your skin felt like it was full of needles.

“You should eat, and drink water,” Crane told, helping you to sit. “It would be better if you remained awake, till I can be sure the toxin holds no more effect on you.”

“Sounds like a good idea,” you told, feeling shaky. As you looked around in the Jack O’Lantern illuminated apartment, you noticed Jervis had already fallen asleep at the far end of the couch.

“He passed out a while back, I turned him to sleep on his side,” Edward told, briefly glancing at the clock. It was almost midnight. “Oswald sent you a text a while back, after you had failed to pick up two of his calls. He said he’s coming over—”

“—He’s what?” you gasped. It felt like your heart had just skipped a beat.


	28. The Long Halloween

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Halloween continues with relationship drama. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still alive, just didn't feel like writing.  
> I've been trying to turn this thing into a book and it's slow and difficult and I lost faith in my abilities as a writer.  
> I made this this one, because Christmas and stuff and I feel like I owed it to you, my loyal and kind readers.  
> I hope this chapter doesn't suck. 
> 
> Happy Holidays!

“You’re nervous, relax. What’s the worst that can happen?”

 _What indeed?_ You wondered, pacing back and forth in the small apartment’s living room.

Oswald would have a fit, that you were certain of. How bad it would be? Well, that only remained to be seen, wouldn’t it?

Would it be yelling? Throwing things around? Murdering someone? You hoped not.

He most likely wouldn’t murder you, you believed. Most likely. He wouldn’t hit you either, that you were certain of. Oswald had always been. . . very gentle with you. Very loving. He had no reason to hurt you. Or anyone else. Theoretically speaking. . .

“I am allowed to have guests,” you spoke aloud, to back up your assumptions.

“You indeed are,” the Riddler replied. He was sitting on the couch, arms crossed over his chest. Jervis was asleep next to him, still passed out. He was snoring softly in his sleep.

The Master of Fear was standing a bit apart from the others, leaning against the wall. His arms were crossed, too, but his expression remained calm. It seemed like he was almost smiling. And he was observing you, you could tell.

The gaze of his blue eyes scanned your body, studying your nervous steps, your shallow breathing that was making your bosom rise and fall beneath your white tanktop. Your nipples were hard against the fabric, you realized, their outline visible to all in the dim light of the jack ’o lanterns.

“I need my cardigan,” you murmured, feeling you should cover yourself up a bit. Not because of the others, but because of Oswald.

Your plans were interrupted, however, as the doorbell rang suddenly with outmost urgency.

“That would be Oswald,” Crane murmured softly.

 _He’s amused by all this?_ You realized, heading to the door, peeking through the hole. The caller at your door was Oswald indeed, panting slightly and his thumb heavy on the doorbell. He had apparently run the steps.

He pushed his way in as soon as you cracked the door open.

“Love! I was so worried when you didn’t pick up. I thought you might. . .” his words trailed off as his gaze wandered over your shoulder towards the men occupying your new couch.

“Hello, Oswald,” Eddie’s cheerful voice greeted behind your back.

“What. . . what is he doing here?” Oswald asked, looking at you with wide eyes, till he pushed his way past you, pointing at Edward with a shaking hand. “You. . . You kidnapped her, buried her alive. I should kill you!”

“Calm down Oswald. Lizzie and I have talked it over, it was nothing more, but a little misunderstanding,” the Riddler replied. “As you can see, we’re more than in friendly terms now,” he added, rather smugly.

You didn’t want him to look or sound smug. He had no reason to be smug. Oswald was already on the edge of having a fit, you didn’t want things to escalate any further. . .

“Oswald, my love,” you murmured, gently grabbing his arm. “Everything is all right. They’re here as my guests. They came knocking on my door with nowhere else to go, so I let them stay. They’ve been helping me, while I’ve been sick. . .”

“It’s true,” Crane cut in. “I picked her up from the streets while she was about to faint and brought her here. Edward and Jervis arrived soon after, playing their part in helping her.”

Oswald’s lips stretched out as a thin line, as his gaze started to wander around the apartment. He had just noticed the decorations it seemed, and was taking in the scene.

“And you’re helping her by having a Halloween party?” he then asked turning towards you, with a stiff smile on his face. His eyes were burning, despite his smile. It was a bad sign.

“The party came as a surprise, really,” you replied truthfully. “They had put up the decoration while I slept.”

“She’s been sleeping a lot,” Crane murmured softly. “Her fever just broke down this evening, but I think she should go back to bed.”

“Most likely,” you agreed, coughing a little. It was mostly for the show.

“Perhaps you should take her to bed, Oswald,” Crane suggested smoothly. “Now that you’re here, I assume you’ll stay.”

Oswald looked at the Master of Fear under his brow, judging the situation, till the familiar smile spread on his face. “Of course I’ll stay. Off to bed now, love. You heard what the doctor told you.”

You went, with Oswald following at your heel. He snatched a glass and a bottle of rum with him from the table.

“You made me worried, love,” he spoke after you two had gone to the bedroom and closed the door behind you.

“I didn’t mean to. My phone was on mute. Eddie told just a moment ago you had tried to call. . .”

Oswald did not reply. He walked to the window instead, pouring himself a sturdy drink. He threw it back like it would have been a shot, pouring himself another one. The lights of the city touched his face between the blinds, casting a stripe of light over his eyes.

“Eddie, Eddie, Eddie. . . It’s all about Eddie, isn’t it?”

You didn’t know what to reply, so you just sat on the bed, observing the Penguin silently.

At the other side of the door, the living room had gone quiet. Either Crane and Edward were listening, or had gone to sleep, like you hoped. Even the TV appeared to be on mute.

“You didn’t tell me they were here,” Oswald then spoke, after a long lasted silence. He was still staring outside.

“No. I’ve been sleeping most of the time—”

“—How long have they’ve been here?”

“About two days, give or take.”

Oswald merely hummed as a response. He was down to his third drink.

“Did any of them touch you?” he then asked, still refusing to look at you.

“Crane assumably carried me here from the street, but other than that, no,” you replied, starting to feel insulted. This whole thing was getting ridiculous and you started to get pissed and so you continued; “Do they touch you, while they stay at the Lounge?”

“Edward tried to murder you?” the Penguin snapped, turning to look at you. He wasn’t smiling.

“Well he hasn’t murdered me yet, has he?” you shot back. “Besides it was just like he said; it was a misunderstanding. The whole scene was staged, actually, or so he led me to believe. I was never in danger.”

“I see,” Oswald replied, starting to remove his necktie.

You sighed, shaking your head. You were tired, and still edgy from Crane’s toxin. Not to mention being slightly drunk. “Come to bed, we should get some sleep.”

You made your way under the covers, watching Oswald to take off his jacket, starting to put it into the closet. He stilled in the middle of the act, however, a golden glittery fabric in his hand.

“This isn’t from me. . .”

_Oh fuck. . . Just the thing I needed. . ._

“That’s from Bruce. He sent it and asked whether I liked to go to a ball with him. I obviously didn’t," you sighed with a frustrated gesture of your hand.

“I leave you alone for two days and there is a line of men behind your door, showering you with gifts and taking refugee on your couch?”

You only shrugged. “I didn’t invite them.”

“Fine,” Oswald spoke, kicking his shoes off.

“Fine?”

“Fine,” the Penguin breathed. “You party with them out there, I party with you in here,” he told, making his way on the bed. His body landed on yours, warm and soft. His lips pressed against your mouth, more possessive than ever. His fingers found their way in your hair, pulling slightly.

“Are you crazy, they’ll hear us?” you hissed, when his lips pressed back against yours.

“Let them. They should. They might be your friends, but you’ll make it loud and clear, that you belong to the Penguin,” Oswald murmured in your mouth, before he moved down to suck your neck.

“You’re drunk,” you breathed, your eyes closed. It was meant as a protest, but your arms had already found their way around his neck.

“So are you, I can smell it from your breath,” the Penguin whispered, slipping the tanktop over your head. His mouth found your nipple, warm and wet. His hands had moved down your body to pull off the pajama pants.

“I missed you, love, while I was at the Lounge. I was very lonely. . .”

“I missed you too, Oswald,” you breathed, fingers working on the buttons of his shit. You had always loved to undress him. Loved to remove each and every layer of the extravagant clothing, slowly exposing him just like you would have unwrapped a present. It was one of the things that turned you on with him. Getting on with the act took its time. . .

“You teased me love, while we were on the phone. . . Now I’ll tease you. Turn around, head to the pillow. . .”

You obeyed, hazed by the alcohol and arousal, the guests in your living room completely forgotten.

Your whole body jerked as Oswald’s hand landed on your pussy from behind, slowly starting to stroke your slit.

“Easy love, easy. We’re going to be at this quite some time,” the Penguin murmured, wrapping his arm around your waist, forcing you to stay still so you couldn’t escape his touch.

You held back a whimper, feeling his middle finger to tease your clit and entrance as his fore and ring fingers stroked your lips.

“O-Oswald. . .”

“That’s right love. Cum for me. Be loud, let them hear you’re mine. . .”

He kissed your lower back, moving his hand slightly faster, making you squirm.

You were moaning now, your back thighs cramping as your hips pushed back and forth against Oswald’s hand in seek of an orgasm. Your tits bounced with the gesture, your nipples hard and aching.

You moaned, loudly, crying out as your orgasm hit you, nearly collapsing on the mattress. And then you moaned again, surprised, as you felt Oswald’s cock enter your pussy with a rough smooth thrust, filling you up. The gesture was almost enough to make you cum again.

Your pussy was burning, dripping wet and tightening around his throbbing member in the after heat of your orgasm.

Oswald grunted, grabbing your hair, pulling your head back rougher than before.

“Not so fast, love. We’re not done yet. Let me hear how much you like it. Let _them_ hear, how much you like it.”

He began thrusting, slowly, forcefully, making you whine. You knew you were whining like a porn star, your ass up in the air, your face against the pillow, but you didn’t care. What Oswald did to you felt good. Really good. . .

***

“Put more volume on it,” Edward Nigma muttered in the room next door, sourly staring at the old black and white version of Frankenstein.

“Does it bother you?” Crane asked smoothly, obliging. The eerie music covered the sounds of the bedroom poorly.

“Don’t tell me it’s not bothering you,” the Riddler grunted, reaching for a bottle. Whole Halloween had gone sour. It should have been him in the bedroom, on top of her, behind her, under her. He would have made her to cry out her pleasure even louder. . .

“Oswald likes his petty revenges,” the Master of Fear replied, not commenting on the Riddle-man’s question. “He seemed bothered by the fact that we’re here.”

“Oswald likes to own things. . . He treats Liz as if she were his property.”

“Being too possessive creates short termed relationships. Oswald seemed to be more bothered by your presence, than he was mine.”

“I buried his girlfriend alive. It is understandable.”

“Perhaps he feels threatened by you,” Jonathan spoke, turning the volume way up.

Next to him, the Riddler rubbed his jaw, considering. He had fallen deep in thought.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave a comment! :)


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